Love & Other Disasters

Book 1: Nashville Love

by Anita Kelly

Genres: Women's Fiction; Humor & Satire

Synopsis

The first openly nonbinary contestant on America’s favorite cooking show falls for their clumsy competitor in this delicious romantic comedy debut “that is both fantastically fun and crack your heart wide open vulnerable.” (Rosie Danan, author of The Roommate)

Recently divorced and on the verge of bankruptcy, Dahlia Woodson is ready to reinvent herself on the popular reality competition show Chef’s Special. Too bad the first memorable move she makes is falling flat on her face, sending fish tacos flying—not quite the fresh start she was hoping for. Still, she's focused on winning, until she meets someone she might want a future with more than she needs the prize money. 

After announcing their pronouns on national television, London Parker has enough on their mind without worrying about the klutzy competitor stationed in front of them. They’re there to prove the trolls—including a fellow contestant and their dad—wrong, and falling in love was never part of the plan.

As London and Dahlia get closer, reality starts to fall away. Goodbye, guilt about divorce, anxiety about uncertain futures, and stress from transphobia. Hello, hilarious shenanigans on set, wedding crashing, and spontaneous dips into the Pacific. But as the finale draws near, Dahlia and London’s steamy relationship starts to feel the heat both in and outside the kitchen—and they must figure out if they have the right ingredients for a happily ever after.

Release date: January 18, 2022

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

Dahlia Woodson might have been shit at marriage, but she could dice an onion like a goddamn professional.

The first even slices, the cross hatching. The comfort in how logical and perfect it was. Dahlia had put in the work, onion after onion, until she could create consistent knife cuts every time. Until she trusted her hand, her knife, without having to think about it at all: fast and efficient and right.

When Dahlia stepped onto the set of Chef’s Special in Burbank, California, on a Tuesday morning in late July, she thought about onions.

She certainly couldn’t focus on the mahogany floor under her feet, how it positively gleamed. Or how high the ceilings were, far higher than she had imagined, than seemed necessary. Like some sort of sports stadium. For food nerds.

And the lights—sweet holy Moses.

It felt like walking into an airport terminal after a long cross-country flight: everything too fast, too loud, too full of new.

Except the set of Chef’s Special wasn’t new, not exactly. Dahlia had seen it before, back home on her TV set. But it was different in person. More overwhelming, more surreal.

She approached the soaring wooden archway that marked the rear edge of the set. It was majestic and unmistakable, like the doorway of a cathedral, if a kitchen could be a church.

She shuffled around it, staring in awe, dazzled by the shining lights above. And a second later, smacked herself right into a solid wall of person.

A person who released a displeased grunt at Dahlia’s face implanting into their chest.

Dahlia bounced back a step, a rubber ball of embarrassment, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Blinking up, she watched as the other contestant ran a freckled hand through their strawberry hair. It was buzz cut on the sides, longer on top, and when their hand released, a flop of it fell back over their right eyebrow.

Dahlia cleared five feet, but barely. And this person was tall. That eyebrow hovered what felt like a full floor above her.

But it was cute, the strawberry hair. It made Dahlia think of leaves changing color in the fall, and Anne of Green Gables, and sunsets reflected off of still water. They hadn’t moved since her face met their chest, and the nearness of another body felt grounding somehow, like when your eyes lock onto someone in Arrivals you recognize, the cacophony of the airport finally settling around you.

And so maybe it was the sunset hair or the simple proximity of another sentient human being, but Dahlia opened her mouth and—

“Oh, god. I just ran right the fuck into you. I am so, so sorry. I am just so nervous. Like, I think the last time I was this nervous was my fourth grade spelling bee, when I forgot how to spell whistle and everyone laughed at me and I maybe peed my tights, just a little. God, wearing tights is the worst.”

Dahlia sucked in a breath. She could see, from the corner of her eye, the other eleven contestants milling around, waiting to be herded to their assigned cooking stations by a producer named Janet. Strawberry Blond Hair kept standing there, staring at her with a blank look on their face. Dahlia felt awkward ending the conversation here, but she didn’t know how to transition smoothly from fourth grade urination—although, for the record, she stood by her assessment of tights—so she simply barreled on, her brain scrambling to find a more relevant way to finish this horrifying minute of her life.

“Anyway, this is weird, right? That we are going to be on TV. That this is real. All I can think about is onions, which is so dumb because everyone else is probably thinking about, you know, veal and foie gras or whatever. Although I’m also thinking about how I’m probably going to trip over someone’s feet the first time we all run into the pantry. And how I will likely forget how to cook as soon as the timer starts.” She paused to laugh a little at herself. “A veritable parade of positive thinking, right here.”

Dahlia pointed to her head. Attempted a charming smile.

Strawberry Blond Hair blinked.

“Cool, okay, so, great. Good talk. Bye.”

Dahlia turned to pivot around their shoulder right as a pale hand landed on her arm.

“This way, honey.”

Thank the goddesses above. Producer Janet was saving Dahlia from herself. If such a thing was even still possible.

Swallowing, Dahlia tried to take it all in as Janet led her through the curving maze of cooking stations that took up the majority of the floor space in the cavernous set. But mainly, all she could focus on was how much she liked the bright red frames of Janet’s glasses, and the small pulse of warmth that had pushed into her pounding heart when Janet called her honey.

They stopped at the very front of the semicircle of stations, all the way to the right.

“Here you go, Miss Woodson. This is you.”

And with a reassuring smile, Janet whirled away to direct the next contestant.

Here were all the details Dahlia had seen on TV for the last seven seasons of Chef’s Special: the deep greens and golds and sparkling turquoise scattered throughout the set in pops of colored glass. How the dark wood of the walls and the floor contrasted against those lighter hues.

She had always thought the set resembled an old Scottish castle on the moors, only recently been paid a visit by Queer Eye. Cozy and strong all at once, its foundations invoking a sense of time and honor—and here and there, some bright splashes of cheer.

Dahlia stared down at the shining, stainless steel countertop of the station. Her station. She recalled the blank look on Strawberry Blond Hair’s face a few minutes ago, as she made a fool of herself within minutes of stepping onto set, and resisted the urge to lean down and smack her forehead against that stainless steel a few times.

Instead, she closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, like that yoga class she went to once a year ago had taught her.

Onions. The scraggly brown bits on the top and bottom. The pure white of the insides, firm yet pliant. The reliable structure of layers. So many recipes started with the basic building block of a finely diced onion.

Dahlia was learning, in her new life, to take things one step at a time. If she started with basic building blocks, focused on each small step, she could accomplish things.

Dahlia’s eyes blinked open as a tall white man with dark hair ambled over to the workspace next to hers. He was looking down, furiously scribbling in a small notepad. Oh god. People were taking notes, and Dahlia felt like she’d barely heard half the words coming out of Janet’s mouth this morning. And Janet was loud.

“Hey,” the tall dude said, finally looking up. He stuck his pencil behind his ear, all cool like, and held out a hand. “Jacob. Looks like we’re tablemates.”

Dahlia shook his hand. She thought she maybe said her name. She was thrown by how confident he seemed, when all she could think about, aside from onions and that embarrassing scene under the archway, was how gassy she suddenly was. Her stomach was making alarming gurgling sounds. She glanced around the room. All the other contestants were making idle chatter, smiling at each other. They ranged from cocky and attractive, like Jacob, to a short older woman in the opposite corner, her salt-and-pepper bob shaking as she nodded vigorously at the Black woman next to her.

Wait. Dahlia recognized that bob. She had met that bob on the shuttle to the hotel from the airport two days ago. A grandma from Iowa, Dahlia remembered now. She was exactly what you would expect from a Midwestern grandma: kind, but sharp. Like you knew she made a mean apple pie, but also wouldn’t let you get away with any of your shit. Dahlia had loved her immediately. Barbara! That was her name.

A small spark burst to life in Dahlia’s veins.

If Barbara could do this, so could she.

But when Dahlia’s eyes glided away from Barbara, the faces of everyone else blurred at the edges.

She took another deep breath. Peppers. She liked chopping peppers too. Not as satisfying as an onion, but so aesthetically pleasing. Exquisite, vibrant colors, colors that were almost hard to imagine emerging from nothing but seeds, sunshine, dirt.

All you needed were building blocks.

“Hello, contestants of season eight!”

Dahlia swiveled back around.

Holy leapin’ lizards.

Sai Patel. Sai Patel was in front of her. Standing in the middle of the Golden Circle, where the contestants would be called at the end of each Elimination Challenge to greet their glory or their doom. Dahlia was suddenly disconcerted that her cooking station was so close to this circle, this space which would spike her anxiety and determine her future. It would, in fact, never escape her vision.

Everything was fine.

“I know how nervous you are right now.” Bless Sai Patel, and his mussed dark hair, and his shirt with the top button unbuttoned, for saying this out loud. “But remember—we chose you, out of thousands of possible contestants, for a reason. You’ve already gotten through the hardest part. You’re here! And now? This is when the fun starts.”

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.

It took far longer than Dahlia had anticipated, but finally, finally, over an hour and many surprisingly specific instructions later, it was time to cook.

The first challenge was always simple, open ended. Each contestant cooked whatever they wanted to showcase their personal styles, their signature skills. Everyone knew this, had time to plan for it for weeks.

She in fact didn’t trip on the mad dash to the pantry. As soon as Dahlia got her hands on some limes, she felt calm. Back at her station, she swept her dark hair onto the top of her head as the red clock embedded in the judges’ table clicked away, and she made a game plan. She was vaguely aware that Jacob was making filet mignon, that Strawberry Blond Grunting Face behind her was making lamb. She knew it would be this way.

On every cooking show she’d ever watched, everyone always jerked off to proteins she hardly ever cooked with. All of that stuff cost money. Money a single, recently divorced copy editor didn’t have.

Honestly, the only protein Dahlia could really afford, if she ever stuck to her budget, was canned tuna. But she preferred vegetarian dishes anyway. One could do some pretty amazing things with fresh produce, flour, grains, eggs, and a shit ton of spices. Perfecting homemade pasta was the first true balm to her soul last year after she moved out of the house she had shared with David, to be truly on her own for the first time in her life.

Vegetarian dishes didn’t win Chef’s Special.

But. Dahlia had grown up by the rocky shores of New England. She currently lived by the brackish waters of Chesapeake Bay. She knew seafood, too.

Not that fish tacos were really a signature of either New England or the Chesapeake. But whatever, who wanted to mess with crabs and lobsters, which had always seemed to her like more work than they were worth? She could have her way with a slab of cod and still have fun with all the other stuff. Marinade to mix, fresh tortillas to grill, cabbage to chop, jalapeños to mince. Colors, flavors, juices. The brighter and saucier the food, the more joy Dahlia took from it.

She had no idea whether fish tacos would be too basic for the judges or not, but she knew they would taste good and they would look pretty, and those were the only building blocks Dahlia had to work with.

So she juiced, she mixed, she grilled, she chopped, she cooked. She made a plan and followed it. She smiled at the judges and answered their amiable banter when they stopped by her station. She tried not to think about the cameras, tried not to look at the judges’ faces as they sampled her food. Tried not to think about lamb or steak.

And even though this first day of filming had already seemed to take a million hours, the sixty minutes they had to cook truly did fly by. Somehow there were only five minutes left, and Dahlia felt tense but good, this rush of adrenaline wiping all other thoughts from her mind. Her hands were steady as she plated. She even had an extra minute to tidy her station.

When Tanner Tavish yelled, “Time’s up!,” her arms fell to her sides. Her feet took a step back.

And that was when Dahlia started to shake.

Which she hoped wasn’t noticeable in all of these high-definition cameras, or to the judges in front of her, who had been around the world and cooked in Michelin-starred restaurants. Who walked around set like they owned the joint. Because they did. At worst, she hoped her trembles were only noticed by Freckled Grumpypants behind her, whose opinion of her probably couldn’t get any lower at this point anyway.

There was a brief break, as Janet and the production assistants and the judges huddled and pointed and discussed who knew what. Contestants’ plates were adjusted slightly, perfected for the cameras. Contestants ran to the bathroom, laughed nervously with each other. Dahlia stood in place, biting her lip.

And then they were back.

And Audra Carnegie said her name.

Seriously?

She would be the first to have her food judged?

Dahlia had no idea whether this was a blessing or a curse. But she did know her nerves were still recovering from sixty minutes of hyper-focus.

Closing her eyes for just a second, she took another yoga breath. She placed her hands underneath her plate. She stepped away from her station. She rounded the table.

And she tripped.

The world went in slow motion, a torturous horror film. From outside of her body, Dahlia saw Sai Patel rush forward, hands outstretched, brown eyes wide. She thought she heard someone curse. Had there been something in her way? An upturned snag of electrical tape? Or had she, Dahlia Woodson, for the love of all that was holy, really tripped over her own feet after she had made her very first meal on national TV?

Oh dear lord. She was going to literally fall flat on her face.

Somewhere, in the recesses of her brain, she thought, Well, naturally, before her mind went numb. The studio lights were blinding as starbursts of rice, ribbons of purple cabbage, and a playful dash of lime crema took flight moments before her body slammed onto the floor.

Chapter Two

London just needed a moment to themself.

They had stepped into this dim hotel bar to find it, escaping to this grimy table in the corner, crumbs and drink rings littering its surface. Just one moment to themself. They could have continued up to their hotel room to decompress after this entirely too long first day of filming. But their hotel room didn’t have bourbon.

The first taste had felt so good, burning the back of their throat in exactly the way they desired. Cold, strong, a kick of home. It cleared their mind, just a touch. Another glass, and they might clear this whole funky headspace entirely. They had performed well today, but that was likely only because they had practiced making that lamb approximately ninety-eight times.

Tomorrow, the real Chef’s Special started. Face-Offs. Ingredient Innovations. Elimination Challenges where they didn’t have weeks to prepare. Real World Challenges. They had to get their mind in order, as soon as humanly possible, if they wanted to succeed.

And maybe they were only here because they got too drunk with Julie last Christmas, when they saw the ad about Chef’s Specialauditions coming to Nashville. Julie had dared them to try out, and they had never once in their life said no to a dare from their twin sister. But now that they were here, it was real. And the more London thought about what they would do with that prize money, the better they felt about it.

London wanted to succeed at this more than anything.

So they spent the next two sips of bourbon clearing their head and preparing for tomorrow, for the next day, for every challenge to come.

And then a bag slammed into the empty chair across from them.

The surprising bag was followed by an equally surprising woman, whose wild dark hair framed a face that declared she had had quite enough of the day, thank you very much. She stuck her hands on her hips, visibly huffing, and glared at them.

“Dahlia.” London winced, recalling her spectacular trip on set, which had occurred hours earlier at this point but was still imprinted on their mind. Because how could it not be. It had been…epic. “I am so, so—”

“Oh, shut up.” She waved a hand. “Everyone is so sorry for me. I know. Believe me, I’m sorry for me, too. I don’t want to talk about that.”

London gripped their liquor, unsure what in the world they and Dahlia Woodson had to talk about, if they couldn’t talk about that.

But Dahlia apparently knew.

“Why didn’t you say good luck back?”

London blinked.

“Or even smile!” She continued, booming with anger when London didn’t respond. “You didn’t have to say anything, but you could have at least smiled back. Or said literally anything to me, after I embarrassed myself at the beginning of the day. All I was trying to do was be friendly. Look for a little reassurance before the most terrifying thing in my life commenced. Why be such a jerk?”

London was too stunned to reply. Or to even take another sip of bourbon. Which they sorely needed.

Dahlia crossed her arms over her chest.

“Did I do something to you?”

London could feel it now, see it in her eyes as Dahlia attempted to bluster on, how the heat was going out of her. Her anger was quickly giving way to sadness, or fatigue, or something else. And while the anger had been startling, no part of London had any room for this stranger’s sadness. By the time she pushed out her last question, she only sounded tired. “Or are you just one of those people who indiscriminately hates everyone?”

London frowned at this characterization, even if it had been weakly thrown. “I don’t hate you. That’s not…no.” They took a breath. Fine. They’d put an end to this thing. “I’m sorry I didn’t say good luck back.”

The truth was that London remembered Dahlia saying good luck to them. They remembered their brain registering that they should reply, and the command not quite reaching their mouth. They remembered pretty much everything about Dahlia Woodson from today, from the moment they walked on set and first got a glimpse of that hair.

It was mesmerizing. Thick, almost black, unkempt. But the thing that left London slightly gobsmacked was simply how much of it there was. It cascaded in waves all the way to her waist. It was ridiculous, was what it was.

The season eight cast had met last night for a meet-and-greet cocktail hour and dinner at some swanky restaurant in Burbank. There was so much going on, so many hands to shake and names to remember and fake smiles to plaster on, ...