The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

If she’d been in her own restaurant, perhaps Frida would’ve taken some action to ensure that such culinary malpractice didn’t slip through the cracks again. But then again, they’d recognize the Head Chef at her restaurant, and they wouldn’t dare try any of that stuff with her. Everyone who worked in Frida’s kitchen loved their jobs far too much for that.

People tended to be surprised when Frida divulged the information that she never dined at her own restaurant. She didn’t know why it seemed pretty part of the course to her. Like, chocolate tasters don’t want chocolate for their birthday. Nobody likes bringing their work home with them! Sure, Frida cooked for herself at home every so often, but she didn’t spring for the full three-course meals that she used to.

Because she spent all day cooking. And as much as she loved being in the kitchen at work, whipping up her signature dishes, she didn’t want to do it all day every day. Sometimes she just wanted to relax at home with a glass of wine, maybe a good book or a movie. Often than not she would end up falling asleep before getting halfway through anything but she enjoyed the downtime of it all, putting her feet up always helped take the strain off of her legs and feet.

The same logic applied to Frida’s personal dining experiences. She spent virtually every minute of every day inside the same restaurant. She had adopted her old boss’ technique of standing right in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining area, to spot walk-ins and try and gauge what orders would be coming through. Back when she’d first learned of the technique, she’d been as skeptical as a person could be, but now, even to this day, she was surprised at how well it worked.

So after spending virtually every minute of every day inside the same restaurant, walking on the same floor, looking at the same wallpaper, Frida found she had little desire to spend her nights there. And she certainly didn’t have any desire to spend her very rare days off there, either. And “rare” was not used loosely there; Frida had had three days off in the year since becoming Head Chef. Three!

She didn’t want to complain too much about it, but her job had definitely proved to be demanding and possibly more demanding than she had originally thought. It didn’t bother her so much considering she didn’t have much of a social life but having time to herself more often was something she longed for.

And this night was made it four. It was the first day off that Frida had had in months, and she knew exactly how she wanted to spend it. Strangely, but to Frida’s pleasant surprise, the entire day went according to plan. She slept in, woke up at eleven AM in the morning, a luxury that had been denied her for months on end. And then she’d spent hours soaking in her bathtub, a mug of chamomile tea perched next to her, and her current favorite read, a book called The Man in the Black Fedora by Tom Johnson.

And that was how Frida wasted, or rather lavished, away her entire morning and early afternoon, for that matter. Off her feet, on her butt, not doing a goddamn thing. And the party hadn’t even started, in her opinion. She had no intention of actually going out to party, that wasn’t even a thought that crossed her mind, family speaking she hadn’t been a party animal at any point in her life. It didn’t bother her so much, she had her goals to keep in check and to her, that was enough. The thought of suffering from a heavy night of drinking alcohol never seemed to apply to her.

That night, she’d already made reservations to dine at the second-best restaurant in Seattle, a bistro out in Pioneer Square that was rumored to have the best lobster Thermidor on the west coast, which was an inflated reputation that Frida just had to have a crack at popping wide open.

Of course, there was always the chance that their reputation was well-earned, but in any case, all parties involved knew who was the best and who played second fiddle. That was the important thing. Frida half-expected to have to go through a hassle to even get a table, given that she was literally running the restaurant’s competition. However, the Head Chef of Ritorno Casa was a lot more mature and a lot smarter than she gave him credit for.

Instead of fighting with her at the door, as soon as he heard her name, the man himself came out of the kitchen to usher Frida to a table of her choice, and before Frida even knew what was happening, he had snapped his fingers, waiters and waitresses were surrounding them and menus were coming out of places that Frida had no idea menus could even come out of. Frida turned her expectant gaze to the menus. She had to admit, the design layout was something to be admired; someone had a flair for design and had gone all out, it just made Frida want to order something even more.

“I’ll have the Crema di Pomodoro soup to start,” she said. In Frida’s opinion, you couldn’t go wrong with a good, old cream of tomato soup. A great choice of appetizer.

“Excellent,” the man himself said. Despite running an Italian restaurant, the Head Chef of Ritorno Casa, Michel Caron, was a Frenchman, and extremely so. He talked with perfect English, and yet in a heavy French accent, which led Frida to believe he was putting it on for the dining guests. Were it so, it was an inspired idea, to be sure because no one is more trustworthy than a Frenchman when it comes to fine dining. At least not in the collective view of the public. “Will madame be wanting un apéritif?” he asked in his heavy accent. “On ze Maison, complétement gratuit, of course.”

Frida smirked behind her menu. She definitely couldn’t help herself. She deserved the attention.

If Caron was putting on the accent, he was pulling out all the stops with her. “Thank you,” she said, lowering her menu once she’d managed to wipe the smile off of her face. “I’ll take a Sauvignon Blanc, please.”

Caron bustled away with his waiters following in his stead.

Frida couldn’t resist smirking to herself; she could not lie, it felt good to be respected like that. And, as a black, plus-size woman, she didn’t get too much of that, that much was for certain. Suddenly, Frida felt lasers on the back of her neck, as though someone was staring directly at her.