Page 12 of Winner Takes All

“Oh, you’rereallytrending with this one. I’ve been sitting here for the past five minutes reading the comments section, laughing my butt off. Do you realize how much of a rant you went on about Victor?”

I pause as my heart lodges in my throat. “I didn’t go on a rant. I was simply doing a cooking video and having a chat with my lady followers,” I say. I’m trying to remember everything I said. I wince as a bit of it comes back to me.

“I take it you and Victor ran into each other today.”

“Yes, at the farmers market and the man’s simply insufferable,” I grumble.

“Well from your video, it sounds like he might be insufferable, but you want him anyway.”

“No I don’t,” I tell her. I sound like a damn three-year-old.

“You’ve been talking about him an awful lot for not wanting him.”

“I admit he gets to me... a little bit... but that doesn’t change how I feel about him. I can’t stand the man.”

“I think everyone’s right, you’re protesting too much. Maybe you’re mad at yourself for wanting him, but you do have feelings.”

“There might be some feelings, but they’ll pass,” I insist. Even I hear the doubt in my voice.

“We’ll see what happens,” Sia teases. “Please figure this out before the competition. Don’t let the man distract you.”

“Don’t worry, Sia, I’m more focused now than ever before. Nothing will stop me from winning this year.”

“You can win and still have some fun,” she says.

“I’m always having fun.”

“You can havekinkyfun.”

“You worry about the kink, I’ll do the cooking,” I tell her.

We chat for a few more minutes then end our call. I lean back and think about the emotions flowing through me. I’m afraid Sia’s right, I do have feelings for Victor. I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. For now I’ll focus on what I can control. It’s all I can do.

Chapter Six

Victor

The rhythmic clanking of metal tools and the hum of machinery fills the shop as my dad and I work side by side on an old truck that has most certainly seen better days. While it might have some rust on it, this truck will outlast most of the new vehicles made today. It’s also a hell of a lot sturdier and can certainly take a hit. It’s made with metal instead of cheap plastic. I really do enjoy working on vehicles even if I don’t want to do it for a living. I love it because it’s time with my father, time that someday I’ll miss more than anything else on this planet.

I love the familiarity of this scene, love seeing him under the hood with me handing him tools while I work on my own things. The smell of grease and oil mixed with the familiar scent of rubber tires and grinding metal is a combination that brings back memories of the amazing summers and weekends of my youth. Of course, back then I was far more interested in playing in the shop than helping, but I love this place because my dad made it fun, and he was always so patient with me, never minded showing me the ropes again and again until I found a love of it and realized I had the skills.

“Pass me a socket wrench,” Dad says, breaking through my thoughts.

I reach into the toolbox then bring it to him, watching as he expertly maneuvers it around a particularly stubborn bolt.

“I don’t think there’s anything more satisfying than fixing an old engine that you know will purr when we’re done,” he says as he leans back and wipes sweat from his brow. “These engines can go and go; they simply need some love applied and they’ll keep on giving.”

“I have to agree,” I say. I look at the engine before leaning back. “I think my love of mechanics also gave me a love of cooking. It’s great to bring something fresh to the table, to take something and make it better.”

He glances at me, a proud smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “I love how you shine when you’re talking about cooking. I’d love to hear more about this restaurant you plan to open.”

I grab a rag and wipe some of the grease from my hands. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, Dad. I have a vision of what I want. It has to be a place where our neighbors can come and enjoy great food while being served by those they love. I want it to be like eating at home, but not having to do the dishes after.”

Dad laughs at this. “It’s always nice not to have to do dishes.” He adjusts his wrench as he continues to talk. He could practically do this job with his eyes closed. “I might never cook for myself again after you open. As your dad I should get a meal a day,” he tells me.

I laugh. “You can have three meals a day. That’s what I had for eighteen years.”

“Even as a child you had a way of bringing people together. You don’t need food to do that.”

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