Page 132 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

46

CLEMENTINE

Iheaded upstairs to shower and changed into my comfy pajamas. I was still riding high on the adrenaline rush of a good service. But it wasn’t just the service that had me practically floating on air. It was the whole night. The faces of those that came in hungry and left satisfied. My dad’s face as he gushed about the success and his dreams for more soup kitchens.

And of course, Rhett.

I headed back downstairs in search of my family. I knew they would all still be up as well. I found Dad out back.

The heated patio felt like a warm cocoon as I settled into one of the comfortable outdoor chairs. Dad had opened a bottle of the good stuff—a Barolo he’d been saving for a special occasion—and declared that tonight definitely qualified.

He poured me a glass, which I gratefully accepted.

“I still can’t believe you pulled that off,” he said, raising his glass to me. “The way you took over that kitchen when Rhett got hurt? I was so proud I thought I might burst.”

“It felt incredible,” I admitted, tucking my legs under me in the chair. “Scary but incredible. Like everything I’ve been learning suddenly clicked into place.”

“That’s exactly what it looked like from where I was standing.” Dad took a sip of his wine and smiled. “You looked like you belonged there. Not as someone’s apprentice, but as a chef in your own right.”

The compliment warmed me more than the wine or the patio heaters. Coming from my father, whose opinion I valued more than almost anyone else’s, it meant everything.

“What was the feedback?” I asked.

There was always feedback. Good and bad. The good was great and the bad we learned from.

“Almost all positive,” Dad said, settling back in his chair. “The volunteers were raving about the quality of the food. Several people asked if this was really going to be a regular thing, and when I told them we’re planning to serve dinner three nights a week, I saw actual tears of relief.”

My chest swelled with pride. It was exactly what we had hoped for.

“There was one small complaint,” Dad continued.

I tensed slightly. Criticism was good, but it still stung. “Yeah?”

“Someone mentioned that the head chef seemed to be having an off night early on, but they said his sous chef more than made up for it.”

I laughed. “His sous chef, huh?”

“That’s what they called you. Apparently word spread pretty quickly through the dining room about what happened in the kitchen.” He gave me a knowing look. “Though I suspect by tomorrow, the story will be about much more than your cooking skills.”

My stomach fluttered as I remembered Rhett’s very public declaration. “Dad, about what happened up there.”

“You mean when that young man told a room full of strangers that you were the best thing that ever happened to him?” Dad’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “What about it?”

“I don’t know what to think about it,” I said before taking a larger gulp of wine than was probably wise. “Part of me is thrilled. Like, over-the-moon happy. But another part of me is terrified.”

“Terrified of what?”

I stared into my wine glass, trying to organize the swirling thoughts in my head. “Of getting hurt.”

“Sweetheart, can I tell you something?”

I nodded. “Always.”

“When I met your mother, I was twenty-two and thought I had everything figured out. I had just opened my first restaurant, I was working eighteen-hour days, and I was convinced that love was something that happened to other people. People who had time for it.”

I’d heard bits and pieces of my parents’ love story over the years, but never the full version.

“She made me make the time. She all but pushed me over the edge and demanded I stop being afraid. It was the best thing I’ve ever done.”