Page 113 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

I opened the back door and was prepared to tell Phil we were making an extra stop but I discovered the car was empty.

“He’s probably still inside,” I said. “He usually sits in back with the other drivers and staff.”

I gestured for her to get in. I slid in behind her.

“He’ll be out soon. Want a drink?”

“Sure,” she murmured.

I opened the small fridge and pulled out the bottle of vodka I had been looking forward to all night.

She raised an eyebrow and laughed at the bottle, shaking her head. “Vodka? Really? That’s your special treat after a high-pressure service?”

“Don’t judge,” I said, with a half-smile. “This isn’t just any vodka.”

I reached into the small compartment and pulled out a bottle of pomegranate juice and some lime wedges. “This is my grandmother’s recipe. Well, sort of. She used to make this drink with whatever cheap vodka my grandfather could get his hands on, but I’ve upgraded the ingredients.”

I mixed the vodka with the pomegranate juice, adding a squeeze of lime. The deep red liquid looked almost black in the dim interior of the limo.

“My nonna called it ‘liquid courage,’” I continued, handing her a glass. “She said it was the only thing that got her through family dinners when all the men were arguing about business.”

Clementine accepted the drink, studying the dark liquid. “Your grandmother sounds like she was a smart woman.”

“She was the smartest person I ever knew,” I said, mixing my own drink. “Tougher than any of the men in my family, including my father. Every Sunday after church, I’d stand on a chair in her kitchen and she’d show me how to make pasta from scratch with my mom.”

I took a sip of the drink, feeling the familiar burn followed by the sweet-tart finish. Throughout the service, I pictured me and the drink sitting in my penthouse.

“What do you think?” I asked her.

“It’s good. I’m not big on vodka, but this is good.”

I took another drink. “Tonight was a huge access.”

I watched her take another sip of my grandmother’s recipe. Even if everything else between us was falling apart, at least I could share this small piece of my family history with her.

“Your dad must be thrilled about tonight,” I said, trying to keep the conversation neutral. “The event exceeded all expectations. More money raised than projected, great media coverage, no scandals or disasters. He’s probably already planning the next phase of the soup kitchen project. I know he said he was hoping to open more locations. With the money made tonight, I think that’s going to happen sooner rather than later.”

Something flickered across her face—guilt maybe or discomfort. She looked down at her drink instead of meeting my eyes.

“I haven’t actually talked to him since yesterday,” she said quietly.

I frowned. “What do you mean you haven’t talked to him? Tonight was his baby. The whole reason we’ve been busting our asses for weeks.”

“I know.” She took a larger sip of the vodka. “I’ve been avoiding him, actually. After our conversation yesterday about… everything… I just couldn’t face him tonight.”

“What exactly did your father say to you?”

She stared out the tinted window at the venue entrance where staff members were still filtering out. “He was disappointed in me. Said I’d been reckless, that I had put the whole project at risk for a fling.”

“You know that’s bullshit, right?” I would have a word with Desman. He could be pissed at me, but how dare he try and put this on Clem? She did nothing wrong.

We sipped our drinks in awkward silence.

I pulled out my phone to call Phil. “I’ll tell him we’re ready to go.”

“Wait.”

I stopped and looked at her.