Page 26 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

9

RHETT

Just like that, the whole tour was royally fucked. Without Conroy, there was no way I could pull off these menus.

The hot appetizer station was crucial to our flow, and replacing an experienced line cook mid-service was like trying to swap out the engine of a moving car.

I had contingency plans for most disasters. I had experienced just about every problem that could happen in the middle of a service. I had dealt with kitchen fires, equipment failures, and even food poisoning outbreaks. But I didn’t have a plan for losing my right-hand man on the first night of the most important tour of my career.

Yes, there were plenty of people that could do what Conroy does, but he just worked with me. He knew what I needed without me having to ask. When things started heating up, metaphorically, Conroy was the one who settled things.

I couldn’t remember what it was like to be in the kitchen without Conroy. At least not on busy nights.

But Clem? She seemed to be right at home.

I called out the order while plating the main courses, expecting to have to guide her through every step. Conroy usually did the training. I hated training new people. Usually, Conroy worked with them and then I got my hands on them. I did the finishing work while he did the hard stuff.

But Clem seemed competent enough. She was studying the cards above the station, knife in hand. We were about to see exactly what Desman’s kid could do.

Her knife moved efficiently through the basil. Her knife skills were good. They would make any culinary school instructor proud. She toasted the bread to exactly the right shade of golden brown and had all four plates ready before I finished the accompanying entrees.

“Order up,” she called, sliding the bruschetta across the pass with a smile that seemed completely at odds with the chaos surrounding us.

I stared at her for a moment, surprised by her composure. Most people would have been rattled by jumping into a high-pressure service with no preparation. She looked like she was enjoying herself.

The next order came in, then another, then three more in rapid succession. The dinner rush was hitting us full force. Without Conroy’s presence, the kitchen should have been falling apart.

But somehow, it wasn’t.

Clem handled everything I threw at her without breaking stride. She adapted to my rhythm like she’d been working this station for months, anticipating what I needed before I asked for it. When I called for extra garnish plates, she had them ready. When a server needed clarification on dietary restrictions, she fielded the question without missing a beat.

And through it all, she kept that same serene smile on her face. She looked like she was having the time of her life. I remembered what it was like when I first started. I had all that youthful enthusiasm at one time.

It was getting under my skin in ways I couldn’t afford to think about just then. My pants were loose but not loose enough. If I started sporting an erection, everyone was going to know. And I did not need people thinking I got hard over a perfectly cooked risotto. Although it was pretty sexy.

“Behind hot,” she called, moving past me with a pan of sautéed mushrooms. Her body brushed against mine for just a moment. It was professional contact, nothing more, but I felt the touch like an electric shock.

Focus, I told myself. It was not the time.

But watching her work was becoming its own kind of torture. She took orders without getting pissy about it. She listened to my instructions with real understanding rather than blind obedience. When I barked out corrections or adjustments, she incorporated them seamlessly, no ego or defensiveness getting in the way. I couldn’t count the number of people that had thrown their jackets at me as they stormed out of my kitchen. I had fired plenty of them as well. I had been told to fuck off, get fucked, and to fuck myself, and I lost count of the number of dicks I had been invited to suck.

“More basil on the classic,” I called out, plating the lamb that would accompany her appetizers.

“On it,” she replied, adding fresh herbs,

She was a good girl who did what she was told. Fuck me. I could not think of her like that. But it was too late. I was never going to get that image out of my head.

Twenty minutes into the rush, one of the newer line cooks started falling behind on vegetable prep. His knife work was sloppy, his timing was off, and I could feel my temper rising with each delayed order.

“Chris!” I snapped, my voice cutting through the kitchen noise. “What the hell is taking so long on the brussels sprouts?”

“Sorry, Chef,” he stammered, his hands shaking as he tried to speed up his prep. “The pan’s not heating evenly, and I can’t get the char right⁠—”

“It’s a fucking vegetable, not rocket science,” I growled, feeling the familiar surge of frustration that came with working alongside people who couldn’t keep up. “Figure it out or get out of my kitchen.”

Before Chris could respond, Clem was there.

“Heat’s too low,” she said calmly, adjusting the burner. “Brussels need high heat and constant movement to get that proper caramelization. Here, watch.”