Page 23 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

8

CLEMENTINE

It was the first day of the tour, and I found myself standing in the kitchen of a small Italian restaurant called La Tavola. Pretty clever. It translated to The Table in Italian. The place was nowhere near on par with Dad’s restaurant in terms of prestige or polish, but it possessed a charm that Salt & Mercy, for all its elegance, couldn’t quite capture.

It was family orientated. Comfy. Cozy. Welcoming.

The floor was a gorgeous mosaic of broken tiles in every color imaginable. The deep blues and rich golds blended with the forest greens and sunset oranges. It was like a beautiful accident. The walls were painted in warm terracotta that reminded me of Tuscan sunsets, and oil paintings of the Italian coast hung everywhere. Twinkling fairy lights were woven through ivy covering the entire ceiling.

If there was a heaven, I was pretty sure this would be what it would smell like. Garlic and basil perfumed the air. Fresh bread and tomato sauce. It was the kind of restaurant that made you want to linger over wine and conversation. I imagined it was the kind of place where families gathered for Sunday dinners and first dates turned into love stories.

It was the first day of the tour. Outside the restaurant, ticket holders were already forming a line that stretched around the corner. Families with children bundled in coats, elderly couples holding hands and young people who probably couldn’t afford a traditional holiday meal were all waiting to be invited in and seated at tables that would welcome them without judgment or expectation.

I had been looking forward to getting to work with Rhett in the kitchen. Even working with him as a line cook would have been a huge opportunity. I planned on watching and learning from the man in black.

That had been the plan, anyway. But they were short two people out front setting up tables and arranging place settings, so I jumped in to help without being asked.

“You are an angel,” Gineva said.

The restaurant’s owner was a petite, lovely Italian woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. There was something very motherly about her, a warmth that made me understand why her restaurant had become a neighborhood institution. She was the kind of woman you would feel comfortable telling all of your troubles to. I imagined her with a big family. And she would be the matriarch that remembered every birthday and made sure everyone had a birthday card.

“My pleasure,” I replied. “This place is beautiful. How long have you owned it?”

“Thirty-two years,” she said, her accent adding music to the words. “Home away from home for so many people.”

I could see why Rhett had chosen La Tavola for the tour’s opening event. It embodied everything the Thanksgiving For All concept represented. I could feel the community element radiating from every corner.

Right before the doors were scheduled to open, I headed back to the kitchen to put on my apron over my bright pink dress. I’d chosen the color deliberately this morning, wanting something cheerful and festive for such an important day. The kitchen was buzzing with pre-service energy, servers weaving between prep stations while line cooks arranged their ingredients.

And then I saw him.

My stomach did a slow roll at the sight of him. Damn, he was so gorgeous.

He was wearing a black chef’s coat, black slacks, and black shoes. I could see the black T-shirt under the chef’s coat. I would be willing to bet his underwear was black as well. The monochromatic look made him appear imposing than when he had worn a suit.

He looked up when he saw me approaching, his dark eyes taking in my appearance from head to toe. His expression shifted from professional focus to something that looked distinctly like disapproval. Like he smelled something bad. Good god, did I stink?

“Did you read the code of conduct for these events?” he asked without preamble.

I blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt question. “I’m sorry?”

“The dress code,” he said, nodding toward my pink dress. “Everyone is supposed to be in black. Professional, uniform appearance. It’s all clearly outlined in the documentation Simone sent you.”

Heat crept up my neck as I realized my mistake. In my excitement about the tour launch, I had focused on the operational details and somehow missed the wardrobe requirements. “I didn’t realize⁠—”

“This is a professional operation, not a garden party,” he continued. “We’re representing multiple organizations today. Image matters.”

I felt my own irritation rising to match his. “It’s a kitchen,” I said, tying my apron strings with jerky movements. “And a joyful event. Why spoil it by making everyone look like they’re catering a funeral?”

His jaw tightened. “Because this isn’t about individual expression. It’s about presenting a cohesive, professional image that donors and media can take seriously.”

“Right,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “God forbid anyone think we’re actually enjoying ourselves while we feed hungry people. The funeral vibe is much cooler.”

Before he could respond to that, his attention was pulled away by a server asking about wine pairings. I could feel the tension radiating from him. I had a feeling his irritation had little to do with what I was wearing. It seemed more likely he was pissed about something else.

Or stressed out.

Was he worried about the dinner? I should probably tell him that when you gave out free food, the people tended to be a lot less picky. They were going to appreciate the food. Period.