“I mean, it’s fine that this isn’t the station I’ve become used to cooking at for the last month,” London continued. “And that I was just thrown up here without warning and my hair looks bad and now I can’t stare at your butt when I’m anxious, and we’re filming in like two seconds. Everything is great.”
Dahlia looked over at them, a startled laugh caught halfway up her throat. But if London was freaking out, then Dahlia couldn’t freak out. This was helpful.
“Your hair looks fine,” she said. Because it literally looked the exact same as it always did. The morning she’d knocked at their door before their road trip to the ocean was the only time she’d ever seen it even slightly askew. And, well, last night when she’d swept it off their forehead, and it was sweaty and—
“Wait,” she said. “You stared at my butt?”
“No, mostly your hair. I don’t know why I just said your butt. I stared at your butt sometimes.”
Dahlia shook her head, smiling.
“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 were both losing 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. She had to 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.
And that was 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.