She wrapped her arms around their neck, clutching at their back, and did just that.
“Dahlia,” London groaned, their teeth nipping at her ear. “God. You’re so . . . ”
Dahlia bit her tongue, feeling herself starting to slide away, just like London’s words. And she didn’t want to yet. This had to last forever. It had to.
She released a heavy breath while she slowed the motion of her hips. London licked down her neck.
“Yell for me, Dahlia.”
“Make me.”
In one smooth motion, their fingers never slowing inside her, London dropped to their knees.
When she felt their mouth on her, she did yell. She shoved a hand into their hair and hung on tight.
“London,” she breathed.
She couldn’t stop. She was reaching that pinnacle now, the point of no return, where everything felt so good, and then she’d crash back to reality and why, why couldn’t this keep being reality? Why did they have to be on a dumb TV show, why didn’t they live in the same city, why couldn’t she keep having just this, this, this—
“Oh,fuck,” she cried, shoving London’s face to her, fingers clenching in that wonderful strawberry hair. She had never come so hard in a standing position before, and before she knew what was happening, her legs gave out and she crashed, inelegantly, to the ground, to London’s waiting arms.
They wrapped themself around her as she trembled, still coming down, their hands smoothing down her back.
Their voice was soft and gentle.
“Dahlia,” London breathed onto her temple. “My Dahlia.”
Something cracked open in Dahlia’s chest.
Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes.
Her arms, which had been limp at her sides, came to life then, wrapping themselves around London’s torso, her fingers curling in the soft cotton of their T-shirt.
They sat on the hard ground under a heavy Los Angeles sky, and they held each other until they found strength enough to stand again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next day, their Elimination Challenge was based on the theme of seasons.
Dahlia was assigned autumn, which was perfect. Fall was her favorite.
She loved the comfort food feel of it, the tastes of the season as important as scarves and cozy cardigans and falling leaves.
The best time for soup.
A pumpkin and black bean soup, to be precise, with roasted pepitas and fresh, crusty spiced croutons. It was hearty, filling, flavorful. It was something Dahlia would actually make for herself to eat at home, and there was something about that that felt right. She adjusted the seasoning over and over to ensure that it was sweet and creamy but also had savory depth, a bit of kick left on your tongue. She knew the cameras and Janet’s watchful eye were following them closer than ever, but she had less control today. She had London taste it no less than fifteen times. One, because she honestly wanted their advice. Two, because she loved brushing her fingers against that mouth so very much, watching them smile and nod their approval.
London had been assigned summer, and was making a blueberry lavender galette with a lemon meringue topping. It was pretty and light, the opposite of Dahlia’s, but she liked working on different things together: London confirming she’d used the right amount of chili powder, her assuring them the blueberry filling wasn’t too sweet.
Dahlia wished, later, that it hadn’t been such a lovely day. That she hadn’t been so pleased with herself.
It would have made the fact that the judges hated her dish far less crushing.
“It’s not that it’s bad, Dahlia,” Audra Carnegie said. “But we’re getting closer and closer to having to decide who’s going to be in the finale. You really have to step up your sophistication level at this point, and I’m not sure if this soup does that.”
“It’s ugly,” Sai Patel said, bluntly. “It tastes okay, but it’s an ugly dish.”
“This soup isfine,” Tanner Tavish said. “But we’re not looking for fine. This is a dish for moms on Pinterest, not contestants onChef’s Special.”
