“One of my best, if I say so myself.”
Dahlia stopped once more, yanking on London’s arm. They stumbled back toward her, and she wrapped her arms around their neck, reaching up to plant a kiss on their mouth.
London could feel her playful smile under their lips. They grabbed her hips and pulled her closer, changing the intention of the kiss, pushing her mouth open, wanting to feel her tongue, her hot breath.
This was uncomplicated. This was glorious. This did not involve thinking, and London wanted more of it.
They pulled away just an inch. “You sure you still want a night off ? We can sleep in tomorrow morning, you know.” They ran their knuckles up her side.
“Yes,” she said, but her voice wavered with the effort. “I think if I even kiss you one more time, I am going to pass out. We need some space to breathe, London.”
London sighed and pressed a firm kiss to her temple. They stood there a moment, holding each other, breathing in the night air: half jasmine, half engine exhaust.
“All right, Woodson,” London said eventually, releasing her, and they walked into the glow of the hotel. “Let’s go breathe.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The sky outside Dahlia’s window was hazy and pale when she woke the next morning, and it matched the color of her emotions, bright and muted all at once.
It felt strange, being alone.
Even though, prior to her Chef’s Special life, Dahlia had become quite accustomed to being alone almost all the time.
She wondered what London was doing. Drinking coffee in their pajamas with their cute bed hair? Walking to get a breakfast burrito from that place around the corner? Still snoring under the covers? Except London didn’t snore. Which was weird. Who didn’t snore? Were they reading a book? What did London like to read?
Even if Dahlia didn’t know what London was doing at this exact second, the strange thing was that she felt them anyway. Two nights in their arms and it was like her skin had memorized them, could feel the weight of them still, a ghost taking up space in her bed. Knowing they were down the hall, a few rooms away, only made it worse.
She ached for the comfort of their proximity.
But she had to sort out her head first. Because the last twenty-four hours had made that an absolute mess.
Ever since she’d talked to Janet yesterday, her mind had felt . . . twisted. Like she was looking at her own memories through a contorted looking glass.
Dahlia flipped onto her other side, away from the window.
The conversation with Janet would have been enough to ruin the day, but then there had also been that whole dumb advantage. It had been awful, saying Lizzie’s name. As Janet had predicted, Khari had fought for Lizzie to walk free and for London to get the disadvantage. Cath had tried to play the peacemaker, making the compromise that Lizzie would get the advantage but London wouldn’t get the disadvantage, and then time had been up.
But a part of Dahlia wondered. If she would have fought even a little harder. If she would’ve said London’s name anyway, when Sai called on her, defying the group’s decision. If she didn’t know, now, that saying Lizzie’s name would be going against the narrative. That it would make Janet surprised. And Dahlia wanted to leave Janet surprised.
Because Dahlia didn’t want to be a pawn, either.
She curled into a tiny ball, shutting her eyes against the daylight.
As the day had gone on, Janet’s words had all sunk in a bit more. Most of it eventually felt less shocking than merely mildly depressing. This was a reality show. Of course there would be hashtags, small manipulations.
Except with each day that passed with Dahlia still in Los Angeles—with each new day spent with London—Dahlia had started to forget. That none of this was normal.
And there were certain things Janet had said that refused to sink in. That kept bouncing around Dahlia’s head.
I can see the finale being Team Lizzie versus Team London for real, and man, that would probably be our most watched finale ever.
And right before she had walked away:
We’re all so glad you’re still here.
It had felt patronizing. Like . . . it was a surprise that Dahlia was still here.
Dahlia wasn’t delusional. She had been reminding herself, every day, how this could all end any moment. And she knew there were several strong competitors left. London. Cath. And—ugh—Lizzie. God, Dahlia didn’t know if she’d ever truly forgive Chef’s Special for airing whatever Lizzie had said about London.
Still. Dahlia could feel her cooking skills sharpening with each challenge. She was in the Top Five. Five. More than halfway to the finish line.