There were three stations left. The auditorium seating had been doubled, for “surprise guests,” China told her cryptically.

Rico, Song, and Danny were the stars competing in the final today, but the eliminated stars and chefs were in the studio audience. Lilly, Tatiana, and P.T. stopped by to say hi. Danny was “centering himself” in the green room. The man had become obsessed with winning. Ashna was sure the network was going to pick him up as a regular.

Then, just like that, the temperature in the room changed. Something shifted inside Ashna. She heard his steps behind her and smelled his scent, and her entire nervous system spun into eddies like pinwheels exploding in the sky.

“Hi,” he said next to her.

She braced herself and turned to him. “It’s five minutes before we start shooting. Everything all right?”

“Not at all,” he said, his heart in his eyes. “I’m ruined for life.” He slipped his hand into hers behind the countertop and more fireworks went through her. “You look happy. Things go okay with your mom?”

“I’m so happy, Rico. She’s . . . there’s so much I didn’t know.” Hiding her hope was impossible, so she didn’t even try.

He dropped a kiss on her cheek, forgetting all about the cameras.

“Now that our missing star is here,” China announced, “let’s get started. Today we have a secret audience. They’ll be watching you, but you won’t know who’s there.”

“Fabulous,” Rico whispered. “More people we can’t get rid of.”

The producers had decided to get downright sadistic. They announced, with some glee, that the work surfaces were being shrunk down to one small two-foot countertop. The crew made a big show of coming in and rolling away two-thirds of each kitchen station.

“We’re live today,” DJ announced. “There will be no audience voting. The judges will rank the runners-up and announce the winner.”

Danny El gave Rico a jubilant smile and Rico gave him a thumbs-up.

Their challenge was to make a holiday dinner in half an hour and in that restricted space. Display teamwork in those tight conditions. Ashna’s heart spasmed wildly every time their bodies touched, the memories of their night together a fire inside her.

Then DJ threw them their curveball. They could choose only five kitchen tools total to work with.

“Bring it on,” Ashna said to the camera, “because I’m nothing if not a minimalist.”

The first utensil they chose was . . . wait for it . . . a knife (insert womb-melting smile here), a ten-inch santoku, the exact same style that had started them off on their second chance.

“What did your family make for holiday dinners?” she asked, turning to him.

“Lamb chops. It was my pai’s favorite thing to make.”