#fangirlproblem3

Not wanting to live in reality.

The kitchen is the last place I want to be. I’m feeling a little queasy after wasting so much time and energy waiting to catch a glimpse of Chansol. The scent of chicken roasting assaults my senses, my stomach flipping over.

I’ll have to man-up because I’m a chef and it’s what I do. Food is my life.

“Talitha.” Sherry, my boss, nods to me as I walk into the back to put on my chef’s jacket and apron. That’s the best greeting I’m going to get. She’s not one for words, but I like that about her.

I pull the hair tie off my wrist and gather my dark locks in a ponytail at the base of my skull. One look in the mirror reminds me that I’m just an average girl, wearing average glasses, with average brown eyes, and a less-than-average height.

There’s no point in daydreaming. Like Chansol would even consider dating someone like me when he can have any girl wants. In the world. Literally.

Maybe I should date Bryce. I can get over his mole. And his wandering hands.

I shake my head. No. It’s too gross.

I wash until my knuckles are red, then take my station chopping peppers. There’s nothing that centers me like slicing a knife through crisp veggies. It doesn’t take long for my mind to go from boys to food. Who needs a boyfriend when cooking will calm the soul?

By the time the food is finished, I feel like a whole new person. Sherry even let me have a plate of Alfredo, and it was perfect. I love it when I get to serve perfect food to hungry people. Nothing’s better.

It takes all five of us on the crew to set up in the small section of the ballroom. It’s not that there’s a ton of food, just that the warmers and trays are heavy. From what I gathered, we’re feeding a small group of executives from another country, and they’re only staying for three nights.

I envy them, getting to travel the world and eat amazing food. They’re even staying in our five-star hotel. I could never afford to actually stay here.

When I’m done with culinary school, I’m going to try and find a job in Korea. I’ve been dying to learn how to make kimchi.

We’re almost all set up when Sherry taps me on the shoulder. “Hey Talitha, Bryce’s called in sick tonight.”

Thank goodness, I didn’t want to fight him off again. “Okay?”

“I think we’re covered in the kitchen. Do you mind serving instead?”

“Sure,” I say, ‘cause it’s what I do.

Hi, I’m Talitha. People ask me to help and I do it. I’m everyone’s go-to man. Geez, I really love being walked all over.

I set down the platter of cheesecake I was working on and wipe my hands.

“Here’s a uniform,” Sherry says, handing me a pressed white shirt, vest, and a black bowtie. Whoopie! I get to look like a penguin.

My first task is to set the tables. It’s a major pain, but the work dulls the emotions.

I kick open the swinging door from the kitchen, balancing the chilled salad plates in my hands. This section of the ballroom is amazing, all wood floors and velvety curtains, and there’s even a stained-glass window.

I flex my fingers a few times after setting down the last plate, hoping it will warm my hands. It’s my job to be as invisible as possible, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a glimpse of the people we’re serving. I’m halfway back to the kitchen when I slow my pace. I didn’t notice at first―probably because I always think I’m seeing things related to Kpop―but this is no fluke.

My foot catches on a rug, and I stumble forward a little but don’t fall. Walking is not good right now. In fact, it’s downright dangerous. Because the people I’m serving aren’t just executives from another country. Tonight, I’m feeding dinner to X-O.