Love & Other Disasters(56)

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.

And anyway, Dahlia had already proved she was spectacularly bad at domestic bliss. Had she learned nothing? The idea of letting down London like she had let down David—if London wanted domestic bliss, too—made her stomach sink into her toes like a stone.

Plus, they had slept together once. Her brain really must have been addled. She thought this morning she had just been overwhelmed by how good the sex was, but now here she was, mentally decorating their imaginary kitchen. She needed to calm the fuck down.

Except London, apparently, wasn’t very calm either.

As soon as the crew called them off on a break after the cooking portion of the Ingredient Innovation was done, London waited until all the other contestants had walked off stage, toward craft services or the bathrooms, before grabbing Dahlia’s hand and yanking her away into an alcove behind the solo interview set.

They pushed her against a wall, their hands running down her sides, forehead pressing into hers, and it was all very fast and surprising and awesome. No more covert pinky squeezes, then. Dahlia tried to hold in her quivery sigh at the sudden sensation of all of London pressed against all of her again.

“Tell me what you were thinking about earlier,” London said, lips inches away from hers. “When you had me taste your coulis and your eyes went all glassy.”

“I don’t want to.” Dahlia cringed at how childish this sounded.

London dipped their head to the side to suck on Dahlia’s ear, while rolling their hips ever so slightly forward. Fucking A, London.

“Tell me.” Their breath tickled her cheek.

Blood thundered in Dahlia’s ears. She swallowed.

“You’re very authoritative and sexy right now, you know that? Seriously, impressive stuff. A-plus work.”

“Dahlia.”

She tried to whisk the cooking-with-London-in-our-cozy-home daydream out of her mind, but honestly, London’s whole deal right now was only enhancing it. The things they could do to her against that imaginary kitchen island . . .

“I was thinking about what we could do,” Dahlia said after a moment, mind racing, “with food.”

This was not technically a lie.

Even if the implication in her voice wasn’t what had been in Dahlia’s head at all.

But she was totally down with the implication that had just fallen out of her mouth, too, so, whatever. Nice save, brain.

London froze. “I’m going to need more details there, Woodson.”

“Well. Whipped cream is a little cliché, right? So maybe something else.”

London was quiet a moment.

“I don’t know,” they murmured into her hair. “If it’s homemade whipped cream, it might be worth it.”

Dahlia shook her head, feeling steadier now.

“Nah, that involves way too much whisking. I’d prefer you keep your wrist strength for other things.”

A bolt of laughter exploded from London’s throat, and Dahlia smiled, relaxing further. God, she loved making London laugh.

“Maybe honey. Or caramel,” she said. “Except those would get pretty sticky, probably. We’d mess up the sheets.”

“I’d say anything we’re thinking about here is likely to get pretty messy, Dahlia. Luckily, we’re living in a place that employs a housekeeping staff to help with that.”

Dahlia frowned, pushing away a few centimeters.

“Is that kind of rude, though? Housekeepers have a hard enough job.”

“They have to clean the sheets anyway.”

“I guess so.”

“Dahlia. What’s your favorite fruit?”

“Blueberries,” she said automatically. London laughed again. “What?” she asked defensively.

“I’m just picturing dumping a tub of blueberries over you and having them roll everywhere. Doesn’t seem very . . . efficient. Name another fruit.”

“Honeydew melon.”

London considered. “We can work with that. Even though, Dahlia, that is a horrible fruit.”

“Okay, Fancypants. What’s your favorite fruit?”

“Nectarines.”

“Oh. Good choice.”

“I have very good taste.”

Dahlia leaned up to kiss them just as the sounds of other contestants shuffling back to their stations hit their ears, too close.

“Want to take a trip to Vons after we’re done filming?” London asked. “You can drive.”

Dahlia took one of London’s hands and planted a kiss on their palm. “It’s a date.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


London dumped the Vons bags onto the small table in their hotel room. “So we should make a plan.” They started unloading their wares. Dahlia laughed.

“Is this the type of thing you plan? Shouldn’t it be sort of . . . spontaneous and messy?”

London tried not to feel annoyed. Dahlia was the one who had implanted this whole idea into their heads, but she’d spent half their trip to Vons giggling and blushing. Which had been cute, on one hand, but London was also tired and ready to get down to business.