Chapter 12 #2
Providing my own food should be a nonissue. I’m here to work, and I want to do it well. I can make that easier for myself and for my whole team by packing safe foods and sticking with what’s familiar. That way I minimize the anxiety associated with eating.
Blessedly, rather than press the issue, Alaric makes a bit more small talk with my coworkers before saying goodbye and moving on to another table.
Silas and Marisol exchange an intense look, then, in unison, they turn their focus to me.
“You actually know Alaric Steele?” Silas hisses.
Surprised by the shock in his tone, I freeze. What am I supposed to say to that?
Hedging my options, I decide to come clean to my colleagues. It’ll be easier than trying to hide my connection to the Steele family.
“I’ve met Alaric before,” I say, nodding and hoping like hell this next part lands casually. “I dated his son for a while.”
I leave it at that. They don’t need to know that Luca and I were in a long-term relationship, that we practically lived together, or that when he broke up with me and left me with a shitload of debt, his father found me lying in the driveway and took pity on me, offering me this job.
Silas slaps the tabletop. “You dated Luca Steele?”
Marisol smacks his arm while I hiss out a “shh, keep it down.”
His eyes are still bugging out of his head. He’s not going to let this go.
Tucking my hair behind both ears, I scoot toward the edge of my chair and duck lower, forearms on the table.
“Yes, I dated Luca Steele,” I tell them.
“Things did not end well between us, so no, I can’t get you an autograph or access to him.
Luca and Alaric don’t work for the same team or have any kind of connection in the Formula 1 space, but yes, I did get this gig because of who I knew. ”
Shame slithers down my spine. I’m not here on merit, and now my coworkers know that.
“If you’re questioning whether I’m the most qualified person for this job, I understand. I’m still questioning it myself, honestly. But I promise I’m a hard worker and I’ll absolutely pull my weight on this team.”
Shaking her head, Marisol pats my forearm. “I never for one second questioned your commitment to this team,” she assures me.
Silas holds up both hands. “Same here,” he insists. “I can’t believe you let me drone on about almost getting hit by Matty on a scooter when you’ve literally been in a romantic relationship with one of the drivers.”
Lips pressed together, I sigh. “We’re not in a relationship anymore, and I’m not exaggerating when I say it really didn’t end well.”
Marisol squeezes my arm, then nudges Silas. “Noted. We won’t bring it up again, will we?”
He quickly nods, lacing his fingers and looking pious.
“Thanks.” I offer them both a grateful smile.
“Okay, we better get to work.” Marisol eyes Silas, then cants her head toward the windows.
“I’m going to try to snag one of those free tables outside.”
We’ve all got long to-do lists to get through before the action really kicks up ahead of the practice sessions, so with a quick goodbye, they head out.
I give myself a few seconds to mentally regroup, then I snag a sparkling raspberry seltzer from the cooler. I circle back to my table, ready to collect my belongings, but notice a few other people have set up here in the cafeteria.
Now that the lunch rush has died down, the large space is much quieter, and there’s a lot of natural light coming in from the windows. If I put my headphones on or use my noise-reducing earplugs, it may not be a bad spot for me to work.
So I pull my laptop out of my bag and settle in.
I spend a good chunk of time focused on the spreadsheet in front of me, going over the template I’ll use for taking notes and capturing commentary about Granata during the race this weekend.
Marisol, Silas, and I will rotate assignments each week. This week, I’ll be in the garage for qualifying, then I’ll spend three hours in the grandstands on race day.
Mauricio has created templates for each assignment, so I’m practicing copying and pasting data and categorizing it so I’m not fumbling with it during the race on Sunday.
As I’m squinting at the screen, focused on a column, a massive shadow darkens my view.
I snap up straight, finding a man who’s almost as wide as he is tall standing before me.
He’s wearing a professional chef jacket, the buttons straining across his chest. The words Mick, Head Chef are embroidered on one side. His expression is hard-set and serious, making me want to shrink back.
Crap. Maybe I’m not supposed to be working in the cafeteria after all.
Sheepishly, I offer him a smile, then take my noise-reducing earplugs out.
“Hi,” I say by way of greeting. “I’m sorry. Is it not okay to work here? Let me pack up and get out of—”
“It’s more than okay to work here, Evangeline.”
My breath stutters. “You know my name?”
He nods. “And I have something for you.” He holds out a small stack of papers.
“What is it?” I ask, tentatively reaching for the documents.
“This is the proposed menus from now until Sunday night,” he tells me. “Along with a full list of ingredients. Everything’s organized by day and sorted by ingredients, with allergens listed below.”
I gawk at the tiny print of the meticulously organized menus.
“This can change from time to time,” he continues.
“I shop local as much as I can, so there might be slight variations or substitutions toward the end of the week. But I had good luck at the market on Sunday, and I have a few trusted suppliers around the city, so unless something disastrous happens, this menu’s locked in. ”
Confusion swirls through me. “Thanks?”
Mick smirks, then crosses his bulky arms over his even more massive chest. “Go ahead and mark that up. Let me know how you feel about the suggested meals in the right-hand column. I’ve proposed a vegetarian option for each of the days, but if that’s not to your liking, then challenge accepted. There’s really nothing I can’t make.”
His tone is full of a confident authority that makes me believe him outright.
But now I’m about ten shades of mortified. Me, the pickiest of eaters, sitting in front of this talented chef, being presented with alternate menu options I’m sure grate on his ego.
“This really isn’t necessary,” I insist. “I don’t mind packing my lunch.” Giving him an awkward smile, I nod to my lunchbox beside me.
His expression darkens. “It’s my job to make sure everyone on this team is fed,” he argues.
“It’s my responsibility to ensure all dietary restrictions are met and no one is hungry.
” I swear he puffs up further. “This will be an ongoing partnership between us. I’ll send you proposed menus in advance for the rest of the season.
You can expect them in your inbox by Monday afternoon each week.
If you can get back to me within twenty-four hours, that would be ideal.
But even if I need to make something on the fly, I can do that, too. ”
My cheeks flame. This is an absolutely inappropriate use of resources. The head chef of this massive team should not be preparing special meals for me.
“If there are any other notes I should add to your profile, let me know. I listed that you’re a vegetarian and that we should avoid cheese.”
Understanding finally clicks and my heart trips over itself. This is all Alaric.
“Thank you for this, but it’s really not necessary.” I double down now that I know where this is coming from. The man has already given me a job I don’t deserve. I don’t need special treatment from his head chef as well.
Mick breaks into a hard-set scowl, though his words are much gentler. “These orders came from the top, Ms. Bennett. Please let me do my job.”
When he puts it like that…
I blow out a breath, conceding. “I’ll go through these tonight and get back to you tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“That’s great. Send them to my email. It’s listed on the last sheet.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, slipping on a gracious mask.
Satisfied, he nods. But before he turns around, he tips his chin toward my drink. “Can I get you another seltzer?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no. But instinct tells me that I’ll win a lot more points if I let him do something for me without any pushback.
“Sure, that would be great. Any berry flavor is fine,” I tell him. “I’m allergic to pit fruits, so nothing peach or apricot, please.”
“I’ll add that to your file,” he says seriously as he heads for the cooler.
When I’m alone, my shoulders deflate. I cannot believe this is my life.