Page 33 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

I threw back the covers and stalked to the bathroom, hoping a cold shower would wash away whatever temporary insanity had taken hold of my subconscious. But even under the icy spray, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

She was young. Naive. She had years of training and experience ahead of her before she would be anywhere close to my skill level, professionally or otherwise. So why was I so caught up with this girl? Why couldn’t I get her out of my head?

Her father would kill me if he suspected I wanted to fuck his daughter. And the last thing I wanted was a complication with a woman. Definitely not a young woman. They tended to be clingy. They had stars in their eyes and wanted big things—like commitment.

I could not and would not be offering that up.

The damn dream woke me up thirty minutes before my alarm. After a quick shower and packing my suitcase, I was on my way down to the lobby. The car was waiting for me with the driver leaning against the passenger door.

I was still wrestling with the thoughts and feelings that damn dream stirred up as I sat in the back of the town car on the way to the airport.

We swung by and picked up Simone, who was beside me scrolling through her tablet. Then it was off to pick up Conroy. He sat in the front passenger seat. His right arm was in a sling, but he insisted on joining us for the tour despite his injury. “I would lose my damn mind sitting at home while you two travel the country,” he said.

I understood the sentiment completely. I was not the type to sit around anywhere.

The car moved smoothly through morning traffic while I stared out the window. My brain bounced between thoughts of the dream to the other night in my mother’s restaurant.

The electricity I felt every time Clem and I brushed past each other almost felt like it branded me. I could still feel every place her skin touched mine. And I didn’t miss the looks from my mother. She was definitely getting some ideas in her head. My mother was all about seeing me settled down.

Wasn’t every mother like that?

“Earth to Rhett,” Simone said, not looking up from her screen.

I blinked, clearing my mind. “What?”

“You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You absolutely brood. It’s one of your most distinctive features.”

Conroy chuckled from the front seat. “She’s got you there, boss.”

We made it through security fairly quickly. Within thirty minutes, we were settled in the first-class lounge with coffee and pastries, reviewing the logistics for the next leg of the tour.

“Alright,” Simone said, pulling up her schedule on the tablet. “Let’s talk about what we’re walking into. La Tavola was just the beginning. We’ve got five more cities lined up over the next three weeks.”

She turned the screen so Conroy and I could both see the detailed itinerary she had constructed. “Miami is next, then Austin, Seattle, and into Las Vegas. Then we’ll hit Los Angeles and Chicago. Each event is bigger than the last, with local partnerships and media coverage ramping up as we build momentum toward the finale.”

“And the finale is?” Conroy asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Thanksgiving Day in New York City,” I said. “The grand opening of Desman’s soup kitchen, where we’ll serve a free dinner to anyone who needs it. No tickets, no reservations, just show up and eat.”

Simone nodded. Her fingers danced across the screen as she pulled up architectural drawings and capacity projections. “The space is designed to handle up to fifteen hundred people a day once it’s fully operational. For Thanksgiving, we’re planning to serve from noon until ten, with multiple seatings and a takeout option for families who can’t stay.”

“That’s ambitious,” Conroy said, whistling softly.

“That’s the point,” I replied. “Anyone who’s alone on the holiday, anyone who can’t afford a traditional dinner, anyone who just needs a place to belong for a few hours will have somewhere to go.”

The logistics were staggering when I really thought about them. Coordinating with local suppliers in each city, managing dietary restrictions and cultural preferences, ensuring consistent quality across different kitchens with different equipment. Not to mention the media circus that would inevitably follow us from coast to coast.

“Any social media issues I need to be aware of?” I asked.

Simone switched to another screen. “I’m glad you brought that up. Let’s talk about public perception.”

I groaned, expecting the worse. I hated social media. Everyone was a fucking paparazzo. And they all loved to catch me doing shit. And my dumbass always managed to get caught doing something stupid.

“So far, the response has been overwhelmingly positive,” Simone said. “No online fires to put out, no negative press coverage, and the reviews from La Tavola are absolutely glowing.”