Page 18 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

6

CLEMENTINE

Oops.

The single word bounced around my skull like a pinball as I watched Rhett’s expression transform from concerned listener to something far more dangerous. Those dark eyes had flashed with rage. It made my stomach drop to somewhere around my ankles.

I should have kept my mouth shut. What had possessed me to spill my humiliating encounter with Hwan to this man? Now Rhett looked like he was preparing to march onto a battlefield.

“Wait,” I called out, but he moved with long, purposeful strides that ate up the distance to the restaurant’s back entrance.

I scrambled after him. My heels clicked frantically against the pavement as I tried to keep up. God, he was tall. And those shoulders were so wide. Even in my current state of panic, I couldn’t help but admire the view of his back as we moved from the cool darkness of the evening into the harsh fluorescent glare of Salt & Mercy’s kitchen.

I had to practically jog to match his pace. My dress rode up my thighs with each awkward stride. This was not how I envisioned spending the most important night in my father’s restaurant’s history. I was chasing after a man I barely knew as he stormed off to confront a celebrity chef on my behalf.

My father’s friend. That was still the part that I was hung up on. Shame on Hwan. He was my father’s friend and he had propositioned me.

The kitchen was still humming with post-service energy. Servers weaved between stations, carrying the last remnants of dinner service out to guests who were lingering over dessert and coffee. I hoped for his sake Hwan was in the dining room. If he was in public, Rhett wouldn’t do anything.

That was bullshit. Rhett didn’t give a shit about that kind of thing. I didn’t know the guy, but I could just tell he was the kind of man that did what he wanted when he wanted.

My stomach dropped when I spotted Hwan near the pass window. He had loosened his chef jacket and was holding court with two young female servers who were hanging on his every word. One of them kept touching his arm and giggling at whatever story he was telling about the evening’s menu.

My stomach clenched as I watched the scene unfold. Was this his usual routine? Find impressionable young women in the industry and charm them with his expertise and celebrity status? How many others had received similar “mentoring” offers?

What a dick.

Rhett didn’t pause to announce himself or clear his throat politely. He simply walked up behind Hwan and placed a hand on his shoulder. The gesture looked casual and friendly but carried an unmistakable weight of authority.

Even from where I stood, I could tell Rhett was gripping his shoulder and not just resting his hand there.

“Hwan,” Rhett said, his voice carrying that same controlled calm I had noticed earlier. It wasn’t loud. It had an edge that made the hair on my arms stand up. I had a feeling the man rarely raised his voice. He didn’t need to. That cold steel tone would be enough. “We need to talk.”

The effect was immediate. The two servers scattered like startled birds, suddenly finding urgent tasks that required their attention elsewhere in the kitchen. Hwan turned around, his face initially brightening with the kind of networking smile he had perfected over years of schmoozing food critics.

“Rhett! What a fantastic evening. Did you⁠—”

“Outside,” Rhett interrupted, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

Hwan’s expression shifted as he registered the coldness in Rhett’s voice. A blind man could see Rhett’s posture screamed barely contained aggression. The chef’s eyes flicked to me, then back to Rhett, and I saw the exact moment he realized what this confrontation was about.

“I think there might be some misunderstanding here,” Hwan began, his voice taking on that reasonable, let’s-all-be-adults tone that men used when they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

“No misunderstanding,” Rhett cut him off. “Outside. Now.”

The kitchen around us had gone eerily quiet. Even the dish washers had stopped their clatter to watch the unfolding drama. I could feel eyes on us from every corner of the room. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. This was so not the place for whatever testosterone-fueled showdown was about to happen.

“Guys,” I said, stepping forward and trying to inject some calm into the situation. “Maybe we could discuss this somewhere more private? The evening has been so successful, and⁠—”

“Stay put, Clementine,” Rhett said without taking his eyes off Hwan.

What on earth was happening? Two grown men squaring off over me like I was some kind of prize to be won or territory to be defended? It was ridiculous and medieval and completely inappropriate for a professional kitchen full of my father’s employees.

And yet some traitorous part of me was absolutely thrilled by it.

Hwan seemed to realize he had no choice but to comply with Rhett’s demand. He nodded stiffly, his earlier charm evaporating as he headed toward the back exit. Rhett followed close behind. I trailed after them both, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Rhett, it’s fine,” I whispered to his back.