The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

Chapter 2

Seattle, Washington

Three years ago…

Seattle. What a city.

Perched on the Canadian border between the State of Washington and the city of Vancouver, it really was the very cusp of the Pacific Northwest, and the gem of the West Coast, unless you were one of those “head-up-their-ass” Californians, who, contrary to popular belief (or fact as most people called it) didn’t really seem to believe in any city that didn’t start with the word “Los” and end in the word “Angeles.”

And all the way over on the east coast, nobody could ever claim that those “elbows-on-the-table” New Yorkers were any better! They seemed to consider any moment that they weren’t spending going on about The Big Apple, the quote-unquote “greatest city in the world,” or their Empire State Building, or their Rockefeller Center, or their Times Square, a moment wasted. Who needed any of it, really?

Twenty-five-year-old Frida Carter was hardly someone who people tended to consult for their wisdom, but to her, Seattle was more than an amazing city, it was home. And it had plenty of tourist attractions; the Space Needle and Capitol Hill, to name just two. Some were saying that Seattle was the most advanced city anywhere in the country, considering both Amazon and Microsoft were headquartered there!

Frida didn’t know much about computers, but she knew that Microsoft had a lot to do with them! In fact, even with all of its apparent wonders, the pride and joy of Seattle, for Frida, was never the futuristic Space Needle, or Microsoft HQ, or any of the attractions that might pop up on Google if you searched up “Seattle.”

For Frida, the pride and joy of the city, the attraction that had captured her heart, was a little Italian restaurant down in Pioneer Square. The place had caught Frida’s eye from the moment she’d seen it, and the reason she’d stopped in her tracks was because of how unremarkable it was. Professional restaurants were boastful by nature. Frida had seen enough cooking reality TV to know that making it in professional cuisine was all about competition. She could count on her hands the number of billboards she would see in a day advertising McDonalds along with Burger King who fought for the same clientele, and although those weren’t proper restaurants the competition in the food industry never ended, from fast-food chains to the more classier restaurants.

Restaurants were all about competing to be the best, and chefs didn’t tend to become Head Chefs without a “there can be only one” mentality. But this restaurant was different. It had an almost homely feel to it. The exterior layout of the restaurant was just so simple, like something one might find in a small village in Naples, or Pisa, as opposed to the big, bustling city of Rome.

Arranged, in cursive, stylized lettering above the archway, were words that spelled out the name of the bistro: L’Ultima Cena. Frida had to Google it to find out what it said, but when she did, a smile crested her lips. The Last Supper. How fitting.

The interior of L’Ultima Cena was just as homely as the outside. Round tables were arranged across the dining room floor, covered in diamond-patterned tablecloths, fine silverware and serviettes crafted into intricate, origami shapes. Chandeliers cast a soft, warm, orange light around the room, and the air was full of the cheerful scrape of knives and forks on plates. A sense of belonging filled her chest the minute she took in her surroundings. The walls were neatly wallpapered and adorned with ornately framed artwork, mostly depicting Jesus Christ and his twelve disciples The Last Supper. But there wasn’t just artwork, there were also more than a few laminated menus mounted on the walls too.

Frida instantly knew she wanted to work there.

Frida loved everything cuisine. She loved food. She loved plating it, smelling it, eating it, cooking it. And it was her mother who had taught her a love for food. At first, Frida had thought it was a way to steer into the proverbial skid. Frida had always been slightly overweight, even as a child. And just like all children with weight issues, she got more than her fair share of teasing and ridicule. A lot of the teasing and mickey-taking revolved around food and her diet because kids were cruel and vindictive, but not very original or imaginative. She tried to brush the remarks off, she tried not to let them get to her, but as a child, it is hard to listen to the voice of reason when the world can be so cruel.

One day, Frida had come home from school crying that the kids in her class had officially christened her with the nickname “Feeder Carter” on account of her size. It was horrible and cruel. Frida’s mother was the strongest woman Frida had ever had the pleasure to know, and whilst other kids’ moms would have hit the roof, or blown a fuse and threatened to go down to the school and put one of the kids through a wall, Frida’s mom had simply sat there and listened to the story, her brow furrowing with each word. She didn’t give much away as she listened, her face stayed passive.

Finally, Frida finished the story. Her mother had sat there for a few moments, not moving, not even speaking. Frida found herself wondering if she’d even been listening to a word. And then, she’d gotten up and beckoned for Frida to follow her into the kitchen. Frida had obeyed, full of confusion at what was about to happen. She couldn’t be in trouble, could she? And this was hardly the time for a snack!

But Frida could never have predicted what happened next. Her mom opened up all the kitchen cupboards and drawers and began to remove all manner of crockery and utensils. She took out saucepans, frying pans, and big soup pots. She took out plates and dishes, and bowls. She took out spatulas, wooden spoons, rolling pins, and whisks. Frida stood still, watching her mother, she had no idea what was going on.