Must Date The Chef

|| 44.

"No." I wait for further explanation, a small smile flits to my lips when she says, "Try and eat something." I nod. "Kelechi says hi."

"Kelechi, who?" I pull the phone away from my ear to glance at it. "Who is Kelechi?"

The call ends, I groan. This woman. I dial her number but she refuses to pick, after a few more trials, she switches off her phone. Great. Fantastic. At least, she and Paul have something in common to bond over. I shake my head and type in a long message demanding she calls me back as soon as she sees it. I need to know who that man is.

My hands relocate to my stomach, lower to my knees which I rub furiously to calm my nerves. I am hungry. It feels odd, I haven't felt that way in days, weeks, not under Paul's watchful eyes. If things hadn't gone wrong, Aaron will be up here with my meal by now, I dig my fingers into my scalp, the curls from my twist out and let out a groan. I need to stop thinking about him, he is no longer here. Not him, not Paul. We are done.

That part of me expecting him to send me lunch quits hoping when the time hits one. Pushing the files aside, I retrieve my phone to find out the necessary details about Alfa, the guy who won the cooking show. I don't know him but I don't like him, he doesn't deserve the title of winner, only Paul does.

A corner of my lips twitches, I scowl at the photo of Alfa and Paul, he should not have let him stand so close to him, he should not have let him in the picture with him. He took his crown. I frown, his name, the tribal marks on his temples, I don't like him at all.

But I click on his username, skim through all the pictures on his profile, the ones with him and the judges. When my neck screams in protest for being hunched over my phone so long, I sit up and continue skimming until I find what I did not realise I was looking for. By the time I put my phone down, I know everything the media has to say about Alfa. A giggle escapes me, maybe I should join the Nigerian Secrets Service, they can do with my tenacity and patience.

One more look at an old Facebook picture of Alfa and the chief judge shaking hands and I give myself a mental applause. Maybe there's nothing to it, my imagination is ahead of me as always, after all, I am good at jumping into conclusions. I can be friends with the judge of a show and my winning will have nothing to do with his influence.

The same way I got the job at Madiba by acing the interviews and by proving myself worthy of this new managerial position. Yeah, right, I snicker, almost everything in this country requires a connection. I sigh, my fists connect with my knees briefly and my fingers move rapidly on my screen. I hope I am wrong and Paul deserved second place.

On cue, I open that green app to check the message I sent him and my shoulders sag in relief to see it on double tick. Delivered but unread. My feet drums an uneven rhythm into the floor, I purse my lips and glare at his current status with mild irritation.

He is not ignoring me. He is online but he has not gone through his chats, sometimes, you might be busy, viewing people's status, it can be more fun than chatting. Knowing that doesn't stop me from typing another one-line message, my fingers hover above my screen, I take a deep breath and send.

The thrumming of the AC fades, I wait and wait long enough for the time on my phone to roll into another hour but he doesn't reply. I hurry to check his status, no pictures there. Numerous conspiracy theories swirl in my head, my chest tightens as my gaze land on his chat pinned to the top and tears gather in my eyes. It shouldn't be this way. I trail a finger over my collarbone and sigh.

What's his problem? I huff. He has said mean things to me in the past and I forgave him. My chest deflates, I already apologised, or, is it the way I worded the text? If that's the case, I can change it, I want him back.