“You can still stare at my butt if you want. Just tell me when you need it.”
London let out a burst of nervous giggles, which was so hilariously out of character, and Dahlia felt comforted that perhaps they werebothlosing their minds.
As the cameras started rolling, though, the lust-and-feelings fog settled hard around her again, every cell in her body aware of London next to her, their arms, their neck, their hips, their hands. She had consciously ignored Jacob’s presence in the beginning of the competition; it was easier to focus that way. And then Barbara had been so nonintrusive, so pleasant, that cooking next to her had been a breeze.
But now all of Dahlia’s brain power was attuned to making sure her elbow did not brush London’s elbow. She barely heard the judges telling them about today’s challenge. Until she remembered with a start that she’d almost gotten kicked off yesterday.
She blinked, grinding her teeth. She could get through this. Shehadto get through this. She refused to go home now.
Dahlia took out her tiny notebook from her back pocket, with its polka-dotted cover and weathered pages, as the six remaining contestants gathered around the familiar demonstration table that had been wheeled onto the Golden Circle. A large plucked raw chicken sat on top. London stood beside her as Tanner began his demonstration of how to properly break the chicken down. Their cotton T-shirt brushed against her arm, just so soft and wonderful, and seriously, didn’t London want to go talk to Cath or something? Dahlia needed to focus.
And after a few minutes, she did. As Dahlia watched Tanner slice a boning knife with authority into the chicken’s flesh and bones, instead of the panic and uncertainty that had flooded her during some of the first challenges, she now took notes and thought,I can do that.
Andthatwas why she was here.
She was paired against Ahmed for the Face-Off, a perfectly neutral party. They smiled at each other before the timer began, and Dahlia felt okay. Or closer to okay. She took apart that chicken like a boss. Her hands were steady. She felt almost herself again, mind-blowing sex almost forgotten. Dahlia’s deconstructed bird was clearly better than Ahmed’s, and when all three judges confirmed it, her chest filled with pride.
“Dahlia, Cath, Khari—you’ll find out your advantage before the Elimination Challenge.” Audra smiled at them. “Now, get ready to take that confidence into the Ingredient Innovation.”
When the cameras turned off for a break, Dahlia returned to her station. She had thrown her notebook on the counter and was getting ready to rinse her hands when London approached. They didn’t say anything, but their hand brushed against hers before they wrapped their pinky around her pinky for a quick squeeze.
And then London kept walking without looking back.
Dahlia looked down at her feet, attempting to hide her dumb grin. Maybe she could do this, working next to them. Maybe she deserved a pinky squeeze after doing a good job.
The secret ingredient for the Ingredient Innovation today was passion fruit, “a very common and popular fruit in other countries, but less so in America,” as Sai Patel explained. While Dahlia had consumed her fair share of passion fruit–flavored things, she had never worked with the fruit itself: a plum-colored shell with a surplus of seeds inside, covered in gelatinous bright orange pulp. It was, altogether, an extremely strange thing. Dahlia loved extremely strange things. They reminded you that Earth was full of surprises.
Dahlia leaned over the countertop before heading into the pantry, pen poised over her notebook. She decided to make a passion fruit coulis, because she had never made a coulis before. Maybe it would top some simple but decadent cheesecake cups, which would be easy to do in forty minutes. A crunch of crushed graham crackers on the bottom, creamy richness in the middle, the sweet but tart coulis on top. She had no idea if it would be too simple, but she already had an Elimination Challenge advantage. She would feel good about trying something new, at least.
But twenty minutes later, she was less sure.
The coulistastedgood, but was the consistency right? Should it be thicker?
She turned without thinking. “London.” They looked up from their pile of passion fruit seeds. “Can you taste this?”
Dahlia held a spoonful of the coulis up to London’s lips, her other hand balanced beneath to catch any falling drops.
London’s eyes caught hers for just a second before they opened their mouth and accepted the spoon.
As soon as Dahlia’s fingertips brushed London’s lips, she realized her error.
Contestants were allowed to give each other advice. Tasting each other’s food was acceptable.
But spoon feeding it to each other, so close your fingers brushed your competitor’s lips, your other hand hovering dangerously close to your competitor’s chin, tempting your thumb to run itself down your competitor’s throat—well, that probably wasn’t normal.
Dahlia lowered her hands away from London’s face, blushing. London’s eyes were steady on hers as they swallowed, and Dahlia felt helpless to do anything but stare at the muscles of their jaw, their throat, working in alluring ways. Slowly, unnecessarily, London brought out their tongue to swipe along their lip, damn them, and Dahlia felt her heartbeat thud behind her rib cage, the calm she’d worked all morning to achieve shattered once again.
It had felt so natural, to turn to London and ask for advice this way, to bring her spoon to their mouth. She had done it without thinking.
A vision swarmed into her mind. Her and London in a kitchen, a real one, not an industrial-sized one on a Burbank TV set. She pictured London’s eyes on her as she pounded out fresh pasta dough. Flicking flour onto their nose. Bringing her wooden spoon out of her sauce to their tongue, again and again, for their approval.
They would eat the meal fresh, standing hip to hip by the kitchen island, while they drank wine straight from the bottle like they had done in the hotel courtyard that night. Dahlia would roll her eyes while London made fun of her sauvignon blanc, and she would call them pretentious for their overpriced pinot noir. There would be a window above the sink, fogged from the boiling water, and London would nuzzle the back of her neck while she did the dishes, slightly tipsy, occasionally splashing soapy water over her shoulder at them.
And after the dishes were done, London would push Dahlia up onto the counter, where she would hop happily, wrapping her arms around their neck and opening her legs and—
“I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Dahlia snapped her mouth shut. She hadn’t realized it had been open. She brought her gaze up, away from London’s lips, where she also hadn’t realized she’d been staring, to their eyes, which were crinkled at the sides, barely containing a naughty grin.
