The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

Dear Ms. Carter,

I was told you left your resume with my sous chef a few days ago. I wanted to thank you for that, I was very interested to read it. We don’t exactly have a line of applicants out the door who are queuing up to work with us. Here at L’Ultima Cena, we’re not about being world-famous, we’re about making simpler dishes for simpler people that come from the heart.

A position with us doesn’t pay much, but we’re proud to say that we have met the national living wage for our employees for the last three years running. Needless to say, we’re very interested in seeing how well you work with our team, as unit cohesion is of the utmost importance to us. So we’d love to have you down for a trial shift, for which you will, of course, be paid.

Does the 14th work?

Please let us know at least 48 hours in advance of the day by post or in person, or over the phone. Thanks.

Kind regards,

Franklin O’Malley

Head Chef

Frida was beside herself with excitement, and a tad bit of nervousness, over the next few days. It would be a whole two weeks’ worth of wait until she was due in at what she was 100% sure would be her new job — Frida got along with people, unit cohesion and chemistry was at the top of the list of things that definitely wouldn’t be a problem.

And so rather than stress about the day, she decided to go down to the chain of stores in downtown Seattle and buy some new things for her first shift. It took a bit of doing, considering her size, but Frida was thankfully able to find everything she needed. A plain, white, chef’s jacket, a matching apron, and some shoes with thick, rubber soles for extra traction.

The first thing you need to worry about when working in a kitchen was slipping over. If you lost your grip, or even worse, your balance, you could end up anywhere. If you were lucky, you’d land on the floor, possibly sprain something. If you were unlucky, you’d throw your hands out to steady yourself and put them right on a hot stovetop or grill.

And that was the next big thing to worry about — burns. Burns were by far a more common injury perpetrator than blades were, surprisingly. Because when you were holding a knife, you knew it, and you were always careful, always made absolutely sure to keep your fingers out of the way. Burns had a tendency to come out of nowhere.

You could grab a baking tray in the middle of a rush, and realize way too late that it was red-hot. You could lift up the lid of a saucepan to check on the couscous and get scalded by a jet of angry steam. Steam burns were some of the worst, in fact. Make no mistake, cuts and scrapes were a factor, they always were. But they didn’t come from where one would think.

It wasn’t blades or knives that made the most cuts, the nasty ones came from unlikely places. Like the serrated edge on a box of Saran Wrap, for example. Places such as that.

The two weeks passed like a flash, and before Frida knew it, the day was upon her. When she’d been downtown the week before, she’d made sure to drop into L’Ultima Cena and give her regards to Chef O’Malley, and thank him for giving her the opportunity. He was a bit swamped at the time, so she’d had to make it brief, but it did the trick.

Finally, the day was upon her. Frida had a good, long soak in her bathtub ahead of schedule. When she got out of the tub, like she always did, Frida took a moment to examine herself in the full-body mirror in her bathroom.

She normally kept her curly, black hair in plaits, but today she wanted it back in a ponytail, which made wearing a hairnet less of an annoyance. She looked at her full lips, the droplets of water running down her chocolate-colored skin, the slight stretch marks around her thick thighs and stomach.

You’re a beautiful woman, she thought inwardly. And don’t ever forget it.

Those words had stayed with Frida ever since her mother had uttered them, and Frida had repeated them to herself once a day, every day, since that moment. At first, she’d been trying to convince herself, but one day, she woke and realized that her mom had been right. She was a beautiful woman, and that little mantra was just her way of reminding herself of her worth.

After toweling off, Frida took her time getting dressed in her immaculately pressed, ironed, and cleaned Chef’s uniform. She’d originally had some reservations about traveling in her uniform, because it was a pretty warm day, and the last thing she wanted to do was sweat in her spotless white chef’s jacket, but she decided it was worth the risk for the totally euphoric feeling of walking into a restaurant and completely looking the part.

The euphoric feeling certainly didn’t disappoint, either. Frida couldn’t describe the feeling of elation that she felt as she strode into the restaurant. As she approached the front counter, she spotted Chef O’Malley standing in the doorway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, and gazing out toward the dining area. She’d heard that great Head Chefs did this. Made sure they had a good line of sight to watch customers coming in to try and predict orders ahead of time, so they could prepare what was necessary and how much of it. This technique was especially effective with regular customers. O’Malley started when he saw her.

“Miss Carter!” he exclaimed.

“Frida, please,” Frida said imperiously. “We are colleagues, after all.”

Frida cursed inwardly as soon as she said it. The “colleagues” remark was definitely jumping the gun just a bit, considering she hadn’t been officially offered the job yet. O’Malley didn’t seem to notice; however, he was looking her up and down.

Frida frowned slightly, not 100% clear on what he was looking for. Is…he…checking me out? she thought to herself with great surprise. No, he couldn’t be!

“You’re looking very…dashing today,” O’Malley almost spluttered. Dashing? Really? Who is he, James Bond? Seriously, who even says dashing?

“Is there a problem?” Frida frowned. “Did I get the day wrong?”

“No, no, we were expecting you!” O’Malley said. “You’re a tad early, in fact. It’s just…did my sous chef explain the vacancy we have?”

Frida frowned even deeper. “I don’t understand. He said that there were no official vacancies, but that he’d leave my resume with you.”

O’Malley sighed exasperatedly. “He really wasn’t supposed to, ah-this is a bit awkward. The position we have is not a chef de partie position.”

“Oh!” Frida felt her face fall. “Then what is it? Commis? Assistant Chef?”

“It’s not a kitchen position at all,” O’Malley shook his head. “It’s Front of House.”

This time, Frida felt herself blush. “Front of House? Oh…you mean…”

“Quite.” O’Malley nodded, blushing in return.

Frida gazed around the room frantically, anything to avoid meeting his gaze, so he wouldn’t have to see how disappointed she was. Thankfully, he gave her an out and turned his back on her with the pretense of muttering something to his sous chef.

Frida felt like kicking herself. She’d spent two whole weeks! Two weeks building all the way up to this moment, and it turned out to be a big mistake! Instead of the glorious, glamorous career in cuisine, she’d been so ready for, she was going to be a damn waitress!