Page 124 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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RHETT

Iarrived at the soup kitchen after most of the prep work was already done, which was exactly how I planned it. The less time I had to spend watching Clementine work in my kitchen, the better.

But there she was anyway, wearing a bright yellow chef’s coat that somehow made her look like a goddamn sunbeam, chatting easily with the other cooks as she peeled potatoes. Her laugh carried across the kitchen. It made something twist painfully in my chest.

How could she be so fucking happy when I felt like I was dying inside?

“Chef!” one of the younger cooks called. “We’re ready for your final approval on the gravy.”

I walked over and took the spoon, tasting the gravy with everyone watching. It was actually decent, well-seasoned, proper consistency. But I couldn’t let that show.

“This is trash,” I said, setting the spoon down hard. “Too thin, and the sage is overpowering everything else. Start over.”

The cook’s face fell. “But, Chef, I followed the recipe exactly⁠—”

“Then the recipe is wrong. Fix it.”

I moved to the next station where someone had prepared cranberry sauce. I could feel the tension in the kitchen ratcheting up, but I didn’t care. Or rather, I couldn’t afford to care. I took a clean spoon and tasted it.

The cranberry sauce was fine too. Better than fine, actually. But I shook my head anyway.

“Too sweet. And what is this?” I picked up the bowl, examining it like it contained poison. “Are these walnuts? Who authorized walnuts in the cranberry sauce?”

“I thought it would add nice texture⁠—”

“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to follow directions. Remake it. No nuts.”

“Does he know we’re volunteering?” someone muttered from the other side of the kitchen.

I spun around and looked at three chefs. I couldn’t tell who said it. “If you’ve got a problem with my high standards, volunteer at another soup kitchen,” I snapped.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clementine’s shoulders tense, but she kept working on her dish without looking up. Good. At least one of us was being professional about this.

I continued my rounds, finding fault with perfectly acceptable dishes, sending people back to redo work that didn’t need redoing. The kitchen grew quieter with each criticism, the easy camaraderie from earlier evaporating under my scrutiny.

I was in a dick mood, and yes, I was definitely taking it out on them. It was wrong, but I didn’t stop.

Finally, I reached Clementine’s station. She had moved on to the stuffing. It was my mother’s recipe, though I would never tell her that. The smell alone transported me back to childhood Thanksgivings at La Tavola, when things were simpler and I still believed in happy endings.

“Stuffing,” I said.

She finally looked up at me, those green eyes unreadable. “Yes, Chef.”

The formal address stung more than it should have. She handed me a clean spoon without a word, her fingers careful not to brush mine.

I took a bite, and fuck me, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The bread had the right texture, the herbs were balanced, the seasonings spot on. It tasted exactly like my mother’s.

But I couldn’t say that. Not with everyone watching. Not with the media circus still fresh in everyone’s minds.

People were already going to whisper about favoritism. They were going to be watching to see if I would go easy on her because we had been involved. I had to be harder on her than anyone else, just to prove I wasn’t playing favorites.

I had to find something wrong with it. I had to.

I took another bite, searching for any flaw, any excuse to send her back to the drawing board like I had everyone else.

But there was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all.