Page 102 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“So what’s the problem?” Conroy asked.

Before I could answer, our server approached, a young guy with hipster glasses and an apologetic smile. “Sorry to interrupt, folks. Can I get your lunch orders started?”

We placed our orders, but I noticed the server giving me a strange look, like he was trying to place my face. After he walked away, I saw him behind the bar talking with other staff members, all of them looking at their phones.

A familiar dread settled in my stomach like a lead weight.

“Uh oh,” Simone said, clearly reading my expression. She pulled out her phone, fingers flying as she scrolled through social media. Her face fell. “It’s not good.”

“How not good?” I asked.

She placed her phone on the table between us. Conroy leaned over to read the headline out loud: “‘Michelin-Star Chef Rhett Voss gets unlikely visit from Mafia members at Chicago fundraiser dinner.’”

“That’s a mouthful,” Simone muttered with disgust.

“That’s what you said last night,” Conroy added, trying to break the tension with humor.

Simone smiled despite everything. I groaned. That was about the last thing I wanted to hear. I grabbed the phone and started reading, each word hitting me like a physical blow. I expected it to be bad, but I supposed part of me hoped they would just leave me alone.

I should have known better.

The article was brutal. It tore apart my family, called my father a “notorious crime boss,” and then went after Desman for choosing me as head chef. Why not work with someone like up-and-coming superstar Chef Hwan? His reputation is squeaky clean, and his talent speaks for itself.

Hwan. Of course they’d bring up fucking Hwan.

How had no one ever come forward about his gross behavior? The guy was a dick. He was a womanizer. The guy was a predator. I had no doubt in my mind there were plenty of women that had been harassed by him.

But oh yeah, I was the problem.

I continued to read the article.

Not only is Rhett dangerously tied to organized crime in NYC, but he’s also known for his volatile temper. Videos of him working in professional kitchens show a pattern of aggressive behavior. Maybe he’s not so different from his criminal family members—maybe the violence is simply in his DNA.

I shoved the phone away from me like it was on fire.

Simone was chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit that never boded well for me. “Not good.”

“Not good at all,” Conroy said, still reading over her shoulder. “Did you read the last paragraph?”

“I don’t need to read any more of that trash,” I growled.

“I think you should,” Conroy said quietly, pushing the phone back toward me.

Against my better judgment, I looked down at the screen again. The final paragraph made my blood run cold, and I felt my temper spike in a way that proved their point about my DNA.

“Fuck,” I whispered, gripping the edge of the table.