Page 130 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

As we walked back toward the main dining area, I caught sight of Clementine emerging from the kitchen with a tray of what looked like individual apple tarts. Even from across the room, I could see the concentration on her face as she handled the dessert service.

“She’s in her element,” Desman said, following my gaze.

“Yeah, she is.” I watched her direct the other volunteers. “I think I might have been holding her back.”

She caught my eye and smiled. My chest tightened just at the sight of her. Damn. She had me all twisted up.

“I should go help her,” I said.

“Go,” Desman agreed. “And Rhett? Thank you. For tonight, for the tour, for everything. This couldn’t have happened without you.”

“Glas I could help.” I made my way back to the kitchen. “How’s it going in here?”

“Grab a tray,” Clem said.

I did as she asked and followed her back out to the dining room. I noticed a lot of the people enjoying the free meal had clearly dressed in their nicest clothes for this occasion. An elderly man in a threadbare suit thanked me three times for the food. A young mother with two kids told Clementine that this was the first time in months her family had eaten somewhere other than their kitchen table and had enough to fill their bellies.

“This is incredible,” a middle-aged woman said as I set down her dessert. “I’ve been homeless for six months, and I can’t remember the last time someone served me something this beautiful.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “I’m glad you could be here tonight.”

“Me too,” she said, tears in her eyes. “It’s nice to feel human again.”

As I continued serving, I found myself having similar conversations with other guests. A veteran struggling with addiction who said the soup kitchen gave him somewhere to go when his apartment felt too small. A teenager who aged out of foster care and didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. A grandmother raising her grandson alone who said community meals like this helped her not feel so isolated.

Each interaction reminded me what this was really about. Not the glamorous restaurant openings or food critic ratings or maintaining a spotless reputation online. It was about love and connection.

I thought about my own restaurant, about the wealthy clients who dropped hundreds of dollars on tasting menus without thinking twice. There was nothing wrong with that. I was proud of what I had built. But maybe there was room for both. Maybe I could find ways to use my success to create more opportunities like this.

When the last dessert was served and the evening was winding down, I found Clementine helping to clear tables alongside the volunteer staff. She looked exhausted, but she was still smiling as she chatted with guests who were reluctant to leave.

“Ready to get out of here?” I asked when she finished stacking the last set of plates.

“God, yes,” she said, pulling off her apron. “My feet are killing me.”

“Before we go,” I said, catching her hand. “I want to ask you something.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Go for it.”

“Would you like to go on a proper date with me tomorrow night? Dinner, maybe dancing, the whole traditional thing?”

Her face lit up. “Are you asking me out, Chef Voss?”

“I am, Chef Hartley. What do you say?”

“I say yes,” she said without hesitation.

We said our goodbyes to the remaining guests and staff. I walked her out to where my limo was parked on the street. The cool, damp air actually felt good after the long day in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we pulled that off,” Clementine said as I held the passenger door open for her.

“You pulled it off,” I corrected. “I just tried not to bleed on everything.”

She laughed. That bright sound had become my favorite music. “We make a good team.”

“Yeah,” I said and slid in beside her. “We really do.”

As much as I wanted to repeat the performance from the last time we were in the limo together, I behaved myself.