Page 4 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

2

CLEMENTINE

Ihad no idea a man could wield a pair of tongs like a samurai sword, but Chef Hwan made it happen right before my eyes. The man moved with such speed and control that I swore he could have seared beef tenderloin blindfolded and still plated it with garnish and all.

My father’s kitchen was awash in mouth-watering aromas. Notes of garlic and sesame oil, sharp vinegar and rendered fat filled the air like a sweet symphony. Flames leapt up around the wok as Hwan tossed in strips of marinated ribeye. I watched the edges caramelize instantly and nearly moaned with pleasure at the smell of fat sizzling.

I was a twenty-four-year-old woman who got more excited over a perfectly cooked piece of meat than I did watching movies like Magic Mike. Food was what got my engine revving.

Good food. It was my love language.

Maybe that’s why I’m so painfully single, I thought.

I leaned forward from my perch on the bar stool, my elbows pressing into the cold granite countertop, my phone forgotten on the kitchen island. I was too focused on watching him move. The kitchen was his stage, and Hwan was a dancer. A magician. A god of soy sauce and perfect char.

He cracked a joke about my father’s dull knives.

I laughed. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that, or he’ll spend the next hour sharpening every blade in this kitchen.”

Hwan grinned, never taking his eyes off the searing meat. “Your father has good taste in equipment. Just needs better maintenance.” He flipped the beef with a quick flick of his wrist, sending another burst of flames dancing up the sides of the wok. “But his daughter? She has the eye. I see you watching. You see what I do before I do it, yes?”

Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the blazing stove. He was right. I’d been anticipating his next moves, mentally cataloging his techniques, absorbing every detail like a sponge. The way he controlled the heat, the precise timing of each addition to the pan, the confidence in every gesture—it was exactly what I wanted to master.

“I’ve been cooking since I could hold a spoon,” I said, sliding my hand over my pixie cut. I was still getting used to the short hair. I loved it but I hadn’t kicked the habit of tucking nonexistent hair behind my ear. “But watching you work is like seeing poetry in motion.”

“Poetry! I like that. In Korea, we say cooking is like making love. Timing is everything, and you must pay attention to every sound.” As if to demonstrate, he tilted his head toward the wok. “Listen. You hear that? The sizzle changes when the sugars caramelize. That’s when you add the sauce.”

I closed my eyes and listened, picking up the subtle shift in pitch as the meat reached that perfect point of browning. When I opened them, Hwan was already drizzling his sauce mixture over the beef, creating another spectacular burst of steam and flame. My mouth watered.

“Please tell me you are not talking about sex with my daughter,” Dad said as he strolled into the kitchen.

“Dad, no. Gross.”

“You heard it,” Hwan said, ignoring my father. “Most people cook with their eyes. Good cooks use their ears. Great cooks?” He tapped his chest. “They cook with their heart.”

“Teach me everything,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess myself. “I mean, if you have time. I know you’re here visiting Dad, but⁠—”

“But you want to learn the fire dance,” he finished with a bright smile. “Good. Your father told me you have the passion for the craft. Now I see he was right.”

Dad smiled and nodded. “I wanted her to be an accountant, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Good.” Hwan gestured for me to come around to his side of the island. “Here, take the tongs. Show me what you can do.”

My heart hammered against my ribs as I moved to stand beside him. He was a celebrity in the cooking world. It was my chance to prove I belonged in a kitchen with chefs of his caliber, that I was more than just the daughter of a three-star chef riding on family connections.

Chef Hwan was in town prepping for a private event we were hosting as part of the pre-launch for the Feed America Thanksgiving Tour. I knew he would be cooking and even help prep the ingredients, but watching him now, in full swing? It felt unreal. Like I had stepped inside an episode of Chef’s Table and someone had forgotten to tell me I wasn’t just a viewer.

My dad stepped on the other side of Hwan, rolled up his sleeves, and joined in.

My father, Desman Hartley, wasn’t just a world-famous restaurateur—he was a born entertainer. Give him a stove and an audience, and he lit up like Christmas. He clapped Hwan on the back, grabbed a skillet, and before I knew it, the two of them were dueling with flames.

“Clem, get this on your socials,” my dad called.

I fumbled for my phone and quickly pulled up my camera app. I snapped a couple of stills and then flipped over to video. And then, because it was too good not to let the world see what was happening in the place I called home, I went live. I tagged my dad and Hwan. They were big stars compared to me. Their tags would bring in the audience.

And it did.

It was maybe two minutes before there were a hundred people watching and it was steadily climbing.