Love & Other Disasters(3)

As Sai Patel grinned out at the thirteen contestants of season eight, Dahlia could see with her very own eyes that one slightly crooked canine she had observed so many times from the comfort of her couch back in Maryland. It was even more perfect in person, Sai Patel’s smile, and the fact that one of the most famous chefs in the world was standing in front of her, appearing genuine and encouraging and fully invested in this whole thing, began to soothe Dahlia’s nerves.

He was right, after all. She had made it through the auditions in Philly for a reason. Chef’s Special was for amateur chefs; thousands of people tried out each year. It meant something that she had been one of the thirteen out of all those thousands to make it here. She had worked hard. Her new tablemate Jacob and his dumb pencil behind his ear weren’t any better than her. She could do this.

She could win $100,000.

Janet swooped in as soon as Sai departed, her voice somehow sweet and commanding all at once.

“Here we go, folks! We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Dahlia steeled her spine, forced her head to clear. She understood she had to listen to Janet now. About how they were going to leave the set and walk back on again, for real this time, with the cameras rolling. They were to hold their heads high, smile brightly, show they were ready to get this business started.

And Dahlia was not going to vomit. Or release gas. She was going to think about onions and peppers, or perhaps the calming, repetitive motion of chopping cucumbers, summer squash, carrots. Slice, slice, boom. Trusting the rhythm of your wrists.

What she ended up picturing, though, as she walked out on set again, was garlic, smashing them out of their papery shells with the flat blade of a knife. She felt it in her palms, the competent smack of her knife, the power of it. A fragrant, essential building block crushed beneath her fingertips.

Her mind focused, her tunnel vision fading away. Sai was in front of her again, now joined by the other judges, Tanner Tavish and Audra Carnegie. The table behind them was tall and imposing, the wall behind it made of polished hickory with a huge gold circle in the middle, a near reflection of the one on the floor. Chef’s Special was splashed across the circle at an angle in forest-green letters, off-center, a fast, carefully lazy script.

Dahlia felt the cameras watching her, and there were a few things she knew.

She knew it had been a foolish, rash thing, quitting her job for this.

She knew she could fail spectacularly. Fall flat on her face.

But there were other things, too. Things she hoped to be true.

Like maybe she was made to create delicious, magnificent things.

Like maybe this was her chance to prove it. That she could be good at something. Really, truly good at something, something she chose, something that was for herself and no one else.

Sai Patel’s voice boomed once again from inside the Golden Circle, his voice effortless in its masterful projection, his dimples and twinkling eyes radiating charisma, the scruff of his facial hair a level of sexy that bordered on rude. Dahlia had to make a conscious effort to not stare at his forearms, those experienced muscles peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves.

And then the cameras stopped, because apparently Audra Carnegie’s skirt wasn’t lying exactly right, and some of the contestants weren’t smiling hard enough. Dahlia breathed out and glanced around her again, taking in more of the set—the abstract Chihuly glass sculptures, all perfectly lit in hues of green and blue, that dotted the clear wall between the cooking stations and the pantry. She could just glimpse the pantry through them, and her pulse ticked up at all the fresh produce on display, the just-visible corner of the refurbished library card catalog she knew held every spice she could imagine. Dahlia could not wait to get herself inside that pantry.

It was when she turned her head to see what lay on the other side of the set that her eyes landed on that strawberry blond hair again. And a face, she saw more clearly now with the increased supply of oxygen to her brain, that was generously dotted with freckles. Their hazel eyes were staring straight at her. At least, Dahlia thought hazel was the right word: an arresting greenish-gray, with flecks of gold and flashes of darkness mixed within. The hue of their hair seemed even brighter here, under the full effects of the stage lights, like they were cast in a heavenly glow.

If heavenly glows also included grumpy scowls.

If cool, lean Jacob next to her was a jaguar, Strawberry Blond Hair was a lion.

They were at the station directly behind hers. Dahlia’s face warmed again at the recollection of their interaction earlier, but creeping rays of confidence were seeping into her now. She could make this better, too.

She worked up a friendly smile. “Good luck,” she whispered. Which was a much more normal thing to say to a fellow Chef’s Special competitor than, you know, talk of fourth grade spelling bees.

They looked at her, unmoving, for a second longer. She thought, maybe, she saw their jaw clench. And then they grunted.

Again.

Except this was a purposeful grunt. They thought about this one.

They grunted at her, and then averted their eyes.

So. That would be a no as to whether they had found Dahlia’s freak-out charming.

Dahlia turned back to her station. She glanced at Jacob, who was staring straight ahead, arms crossed at his chest, standing in a wide power pose.

Fine. You couldn’t win them all. She still had the prospect of friendship with Barbara from Iowa, at least. Screw these people; grandmas were awesome.