“Maybe.”
They stretched their arms above their head. “You are totally a morning person, aren’t you.”
“Maybe.”
She totally was. Even though that wasn’t why she’d woken up so early today.
London groaned again. “Of course you are.” And they sounded so irritated that it delighted her right down to her toes, breaking her reverie, and she couldn’t help it. She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
“What time is it?”
Dahlia glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Ten to six.”
London sat up. “Are you serious? Dahlia, we have to be on set at six fifteen! Dammit. I have to do my hair!”
London rolled out of bed, furiously tossing on clothes.
“You have to do your hair?” Dahlia repeated, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice.
“Yes.”
“That’s what they have hair and makeup for, on set.”
“They don’t do it right!” London shouted.
Now Dahlia did laugh.
“I hate you,” London said, stepping into their pants.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Are you going to get dressed now, or what?”
Dahlia got dressed while London ran to their room so they could throw on fresh clothes too. When she stepped into the hall, London was waiting for her, looking harried and adorable, and they hustled to set, London holding Dahlia’s hand the whole way.
Except that wasn’t exactly right. London wasn’t holding Dahlia’s hand; they were gripping it, holding on for dear life. Like they were trying to tell her something.
They only dropped it when they opened the door to the studio. The moment Dahlia and London walked inside, Janet appeared in front of them.
“Dahlia Woodson, did you walk through a tornado on the way here?” She patted the top of the lumpy bun on Dahlia’s head, frowning. “Hair and makeup, stat. And both of you”—she pointed at them in turn, giving a look over the rims of her glasses, tortoiseshell today—“if you make it a habit showing up late and disheveled like this, get ready for a PA to be stationed outside your doors with an airhorn at five o’clock sharp. Seriously. I have airhorns. I will use them.”
Janet shook her head and turned around to stalk away, muttering, “I swear, nasty business, every single season,” under her breath.
Dahlia had never felt more grateful to be scolded by Janet. It made her feel calm, somehow. She had to fight the urge to chase after her. Ask her to yell at her some more. Maybe, if she could arrange it, Janet could be a dear and dump some ice water over Dahlia’s head.
Of course, Janet didn’t do that, because life was cruel, but Dahlia still had a moment of peace at hair and makeup, away from the lust-and-feelings cloud of London Parker. It was only as Mack was yanking on her hair that she comprehended the last thing Janet had said as she’d walked away.
Nasty business. Every single season! Oh my god.
Who had been doing nasty business every other season?
Was it Chloe and John? From season five? Dahlia had always thought something was up with them. Or wait—Dahlia almost gasped out loud—was it Patrick and Tony, from last season? Their hatred for each other had been evident, but maybe that hatred was actually just sexual tension.
Dahlia had to talk to London about this.
It took Dahlia longer than it should have to remember why her cooking station felt so empty.
Barbara.
Dahlia had forgotten, momentarily, in her sex haze, that Barbara was gone.
“Finally.” Janet appeared in front of her, staring down at her phone. “Y’all are ready. London, up here.”
Dahlia’s hands froze, halfway through tying her apron behind her back.
A beat passed. Janet looked up.
“Parker,” she snapped, glaring beyond Dahlia’s shoulder, and then pointed. “You’re taking Barbara’s spot. And make it snappy, for crying out loud.”
Janet hustled away then, muttering under her breath. But before she left, her eyes caught Dahlia’s, for just a second. And Dahlia saw it.
Janet was smiling.
Dahlia swallowed.
Her eyes remained focused on the station in front of her, her cutting board, her beautiful shiny knives, but she sensed London’s presence next to her when they finally moved.
“Well,” they said. “This is fine.”
Dahlia allowed herself the briefest glance their way. London’s jaw was tense.
“Right,” Dahlia said, smoothing her hands down her apron. “Fine.”