Until that moment Ashna hadn’t noticed that Rico’s thumb was stroking her. The second she came back into herself he dropped his hand. She stepped away, too furious at him for glimpsing her panic, too relieved at this incredible stroke of luck.

When a laugh escaped her, that relentless frown—probing at her innermost thoughts—folded between his brows, taking her back in time, grounding her deep in this moment.

“It’s omelets!” she said with the kind of exuberant delight one might display when saying “I feel a pulse!” or “Yes, that’s my glass slipper!”

He backed away from her, quickly putting distance between them. A good thing, because his hand still burned on her skin and because, well, they had omelets (omelets!) to make.

Ashna shook her arms out. Eggs were a brilliant, brilliant choice for a first challenge. They were seemingly easy to work with, but also an accurate test of culinary skill. More importantly, Ashna served spicy, curried omelets at the restaurant. Which meant she could make them exactly the way she did at Curried Dreams. It was one of Baba’s most popular recipes.

“Oh, one more thing,” DJ said, and the runaway truck in her brain teetered again. “You each have to cook your omelets separately. The chefs on one side of your station and the stars on the other. No helping each other. Everyone comes up with a dish that showcases who they are on their own.”

Ashna’s shoulders were shaking, relief again, laughter again. She had to work hard to not skip on her way back to their station. By the end of this day she was going to need a massage, from the bipolar locking and releasing of muscles.

“You’ll be fine,” she said to Rico when they got back, because he was still studying her and trying to make sense of her bizarre swings. “Cooking eggs is a standard test of basic cooking skill.”

“I know I’ll be fine,” he said, the full blast of his focus mapping her relief. The emeralds in his eyes were too bright. The way they had been that first time they’d met under the bleachers. The need to see what no one else cared to see inside her, intense and naked. It had disarmed her then.

Today, it infuriated her. Made her brain forget the camera. Made her hands fly. She broke the eggs in a clean one-handed crack, whipped them ruthlessly into a thick froth, chopped the onions, cilantro, and green chilies in an unrelentingly brutal rhythm. All without breaking a sweat or sparing him a glance.

With minutes to spare from the mere twenty they were given, she turned out a fluffy and perfectly moist omelet with garlic-infused oil rolled into a crisp, flaky paratha.

Until they stood in front of the judges, she had forgotten where she was, who she was with.