Page 16 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

Conroy grinned and nodded. “That’s it. It adds a pop of brightness.”

Every course was as good or better than the last. Dessert was decadent. A chocolate soufflé that melted on the tongue, paired with vanilla bean ice cream that had been infused with bourbon. I had to give credit where credit was due—Desman knew how to put together a menu.

I was ready to get the hell out of there, strip off the suffocating suit, and return to my penthouse. Maybe I would call Jen. No, Cara. I was in the mood for sex. Wild sex. And Cara was always enthusiastic.

“We should probably make our rounds,” Simone said like she knew I was plotting my escape.

I groaned. “Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

The prospect of more small talk made my jaw clench. We rose from the table, Conroy stretching like he had been sitting in church for hours.

The live band began to play and people were in full party mode.

As we moved through the crowd, I found myself scanning for her. Clementine. She was nowhere near her family’s table. I caught myself looking for that pixie-cut brown hair, those bright green eyes that had gone wide when her father introduced us.

The way she’d stammered when she called me “sir” had been oddly endearing. Most women threw themselves at me knowing exactly what they wanted and how to get it. But she looked at me like I might bite her.

Smart girl.

I was dangerous for someone like her.

I shook hands. Complimented other chefs on recent reviews and restaurant openings. I knew the dance. I didn’t like the dance, but I knew how to do it.

My phone buzzed against my chest. I pulled it from my jacket pocket and glanced at the screen. Mom.

“Don’t you dare run off for a booty call,” Simone warned.

I scowled at her. “It’s my mother.”

I looked around the bustling dining room, then made my way toward the back exit where I could take her call without competing with the music and conversation.

The cool night air hit my face as I stepped outside, a welcome relief after hours in the crowded restaurant.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Rhett, darling.” Her voice carried that familiar mix of affection and gentle criticism that only mothers could perfect. Even after all these years in the States, her Italian accent colored every word. It reminded me of my childhood. “I saw the pictures from tonight. The event looks beautiful.”

“It’s going well,” I agreed, leaning against the brick wall. “Desman is over the moon. People are writing big checks.”

“That’s wonderful. But would it kill you to smile in the occasional photo? You look like you’re attending a funeral instead of a celebration.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Funny you should say that. My staff always tell me the same thing. Guess that’s why they call me the Mortician.”

“Madonna mia, that’s bleak.” I could practically hear her shaking her head through the phone. “You’re a handsome man, Rhett. A little smile wouldn’t hurt.”

“I smile,” I protested, though even as I said it, I knew she was right. My default expression was indifference. Some people mistook it for irritation, although I usually was irritated.

“When?” she challenged. “When do you smile?”

“I’m smiling right now,” I said, and it was true. Talking to my mother always softened something in me. She was the only person who still saw me as her little boy instead of the successful businessman I had become—without the family name.

The sound of sniffling made me pause mid-conversation. Someone was crying, and they were close by. I straightened up and looked around.

“Mom, I need to call you back.”

“Is everything alright?”