Free Romance: The Billionaire's Demands by Jodi Cooper

 
     
     
     
    “We need the plates now!”
    “You can stuff the plates up your hole,” I mumbled under my breath.
    I was under enough pressure as it was.  As an assistant chef in one of America’s finest restaurants, pressure was something I expected.  But I didn’t expect to be shouted at daily, spat at weekly, and have physical breakdowns monthly.
    I became a chef because I love the artistic side of creating a magical dish.  It is one thing to make a product that blows away someone’s taste buds, but to be able to present it on the plate like artwork is another skill altogether. I think the artistic presentation of a dish is my strength.
    “I need the order now!” the head chef yelled.
    I don’t think Picasso ever worked under this sort of time pressure.
    I served up one plate of dessert fast but delicately.  Dessert was always my best work. 
    “Good.” The head chef smiled with a creepy grin. “This is good.  He will enjoy this.”
    “That’s going out to him ,” Anne, one of the other chefs, whispered over my shoulder. 
    I raised my eyebrows.  I had no idea who “he” was, nor did I care.  Being in L.A. meant that self-important celebrities dined at our restaurant all the time.  The photographers and reporters at the back door were the most annoying, especially when trying to get home from work.
    “You don’t know, do you?” Anne asked.
    I shrugged my shoulders in response.
    “Bradley Clifford?” she questioned me.
    “Nope.  Never heard of him.”
    Anne shook her head at my ignorance. “You shouldn’t live in L.A.  You should live in some little hick town where everyone waves to each other down the street.”
    “Celebrity watching just doesn’t interest me, Anne. It never has.”
    “This one should.  Single billionaire.  Dashing, suave, charming, and the body of a footballer.  Have I got your attention now?”
    “Maybe…”
    A single billionaire… they don’t exist, do they? What was wrong with him if he couldn’t find a date, much less a lady to marry?  
    Or maybe he was a playboy and loved the single life?  
    Many filthy rich men had a million or a billion green reasons not to marry a woman who might later divorce him and take with her a part of his earnings. What man wouldn’t want every pretty woman they could possibly have around just to feed their endless male ego?  
    I peered out the kitchen as my dessert was delivered to the billionaire at the table in the corner.  I expected him to have company, and I was surprised to see an empty chair next to him.
    His suit looked perfectly fitted around his broad shoulders.  Even though he was sitting down, it was clear that he was a tall man.  His slow, considered movements were full of confidence and swagger.
    “He could have been a model,” I said to Anne as I walked back into the kitchen.
    “You should go out and talk to him.”
    “Ha!” I laughed out loud.  “And what would I have to say to a billionaire?”
    “Hello would be a start.” Anne smiled cheekily.
    I felt a little embarrassed as I looked down at my own waitress smock with food stains on the front.  I wished they had let us wear something much nicer to work.  My long brunette hair kept falling into my face, despite my numerous attempts to tie it back.  My brown eyes looked dull and muddy most days, instead of sparkly and beautiful like those of models in the magazines.
    Out the side window of the kitchen, I noticed there was a long, shiny limousine parked next to the restaurant.  The driver was a beefy man who was reading a newspaper behind the steering wheel while he waited patiently for his passenger.  All of the taxis and buses were trying to maneuver around the large limousine, and its size was nearly causing a traffic jam.  
    It must be nice to be privileged enough to hold up all of the traffic.  
    “Maybe the size of the car was indicating that he was trying to compensate for something else he was lacking?” I mentioned to