But twenty minutes later, she was less sure.
The coulis tasted good, 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.
“About the coulis,” London supplied. “It’s really great.”
Dahlia swallowed. “Right. Thanks.”
“Could I perhaps have a taste, too, Ms. Woodson?”
Dahlia almost stumbled backward at Tanner Tavish’s booming voice, right beside her. When she looked over, she noticed the two cameras behind Tavish’s shoulder, pointed straight at her.
“Of course.” Dahlia twirled around and stepped back to her side of the station, cheeks flaming.
The cameras had probably filmed the whole interaction. They were standing so close to each other. Barbara’s voice echoed in Dahlia’s ear: Ask anyone in this competition, and they’ll tell you London wants to be more than Instagram friends with you. When episodes start airing, I bet folks at home will be able to see it, too.
Dahlia wondered, briefly, if Janet had seen her nasty business hair this morning and hustled over to the rest of the production team to say, “You know what we should do? Move Parker up next to Woodson. Keep a close eye on those two, okay? The audience is going to eat that shit up.”
Dahlia didn’t want to believe Janet would do this.
But TV was a business, after all.
A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.
Trying to ignore it, she returned to her coulis, back to the comfort of food and her own mind.
Her mind, which had just done a funny thing.
There were many nonsensical facets of the fantasy Dahlia had just had, before the cameras had ruined it. There was the fact that she and London were both currently living in a hotel, clearly lacking in cozy, steamy kitchens. And that when they did return to their respective kitchens, away from Chef’s Special, one was very much in Nashville, while the other remained in Maryland. As they had established. As had been established, since the beginning.