Page 100 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

35

RHETT

Being back in New York felt surreal after weeks on the road. I was happy to be back, but I also missed the thrill of traveling. It felt good to sleep in my own bed but not as good as it had been sleeping with Clementine tucked up against me.

I met Simone at our usual coffee shop on the Upper West Side, a little place called Grind that served excellent espresso and minded their own business. After weeks of hotel lobbies and airport cafes, the familiar chairs and jazz music felt like coming home.

“You look rested,” Simone said, sliding into the seat across from me. She had that look, the one that meant she had a mental checklist and we were going to work through every item whether I wanted to or not.

She pulled out her tablet, already scrolling through what I assumed was a comprehensive list of everything that had gone wrong in my absence.

My stomach tightened. “How bad?”

“Nothing major,” she said quickly.

I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. I trusted my staff. I had personally trained all of them. The goal was to get them good enough to run the restaurant without me babysitting every minute. If I ever hoped to expand, I was going to need several good managers.

“Adam handled most of the kitchen issues beautifully. That new sous chef you hired before we left? He’s working out well. Picked up the slack without any drama.”

“Good. What else?”

“The wine distributor tried to shortchange us on the Bordeaux order. Adam caught it, made some calls, got it sorted. They won’t try that again.” She scrolled down her list. “Oh, and the health inspector showed up unannounced last Tuesday.”

I sat up straighter. “And?”

“Perfect score. Adam said the guy couldn’t find anything to complain about, which apparently frustrated him.” Simone’s smile was smug. “Your kitchen runs like clockwork even when you’re not there. You should be proud.”

I was, actually. Building a team that could function without constant oversight had been one of my biggest goals when I opened the restaurant. Too many chefs made themselves indispensable, which meant they could never step away without everything falling apart.

“Reservations are booked solid through January,” she continued. “The publicity from the tour helped. We’ve had calls from three different food magazines wanting to do features, and that Netflix documentary crew reached out again.”

“Still no on the documentary.”

“I figured, but I had to mention it.”

We finished our coffee and walked the six blocks to the event space. The November air had that bite to it that promised snow. I pulled my coat tighter as we navigated the crowded sidewalks.

“You nervous?” Simone asked, glancing at me sideways.

“Should I be?”

“Well, considering the last time you were in public, your relatives showed up like they were auditioning for The Sopranos…”

I shot her a look. “They’re not going to show up. They got their chaos fix in Chicago.”

“Famous last words.”

We walked into the event space where we would be hosting tomorrow night’s final fundraiser before the Thanksgiving grand opening. Everything was riding on this. The future of the soup kitchen, Desman’s reputation, and my own career.

No pressure at all.

Clementine had spent the morning with her family. I was genuinely happy for her. The way her face had lit up when she talked about seeing her little brother again reminded me why I’d fallen for her in the first place. She would join us later in the evening.

“This place is gorgeous,” Simone said, running her hand along the marble bar top. The event space was all exposed brick and industrial lighting, the kind of trendy Manhattan venue that charged five grand just to walk through the door.

“It’ll do,” I said, scanning the dining room. “Conroy, did you confirm the delivery times with all our vendors?”

“Everything’s locked and loaded, Chef,” he replied.