Personal Chef

Chapter 1

"Explain to me again why I should consider this job," I said to my dad as I added garnishes to the platters I was preparing.

"This guy wants a personal chef. You were in charge of a catered event he went to over the summer and I guess he remembered your cooking or something. His manager called here asking specifically if you were for hire. It's a big compliment!"

"And you think I should do it?"

My dad nodded vigorously. "It's a ton of money, Chelsea. You'd be a fool not to."

"I do at least 50% of the cooking for our company, though. How are you going to manage," I asked as I handed the platters to the staff who stood there waiting.

"I can hire someone. Besides, your job wouldn't be full time. If I needed you, you could come in when you aren't preparing gourmet meals for this guy."

It made sense financially, but the idea of being a personal chef bugged the hell out of me. I loved to cook, but cooking for just one person wasn't my thing. I liked big productions. I liked the pressure of having to make dozens of entrees in twenty minutes for a wedding.

"Text me the number. I'll give him a call," I said.

The least I could do was speak to the manager. I was getting all this information secondhand. I'd be better prepared to make a decision after I actually spoke to who wanted to hire me.

~~~~~~

Two days later, I was meeting the manager, who was named Andrew, and his client at the guy's condo. It was in a nice section of town. I hoped that meant a cool condo with a fantastic kitchen. The idea of working in a shitty kitchen was enough to make me puke. A good kitchen was everything.

I knocked on the door.

"You must be Chelsea Price," the man who opened the door said with a smile. "Come on in."

I walked in and saw the kitchen right away. It was okay. Not great, but workable.

The man extended a hand, "I'm Andrew. Shawn will be right out."

And with those words, Shawn walked in. He must have been in his room. His hair was damp. Freshly showered.

It took about five seconds for it to register in my brain that Shawn, the guy who wanted a personal chef, was Shawn Mendes, pop star.

"You're Shawn Mendes," I said as he put a hand out for me to shake.

"I am. And you are Chelsea?"

I looked at his hand that was in a holding pattern, waiting for me to shake it. I shook it firmly, just as my dad had taught me to do.

"I'm Chelsea."

Shawn looked at me with a curious expression. "You are really young."

I got this a lot. People don't expect someone in my job to be my age.

"I'm 22 years old," I told him.

I'd just turned 22, but I looked younger. I was average height and fairly well proportioned. I'd been a chubby kid, which often happens when you grow up around great food. I'd learned how to be moderate, and by the time I was in high school I was pretty fit.

I had thick strawberry blonde (almost red) hair that I always wore in either a bun or pony tail. There's nothing worse than finding hair in your food, and I did not want my hair ending up in the food I prepared. My eyes were light hazel green. I had a smattering of freckles across my slightly pointed nose and on the apples of my cheeks. I think the freckles were what made me look so young.