Page 43 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

He shook his head. It was clear he was done sharing.

There was something he wasn’t telling me. The wall that had come down during our laughter was threatening to go back up, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to keep this version of Rhett.

“I get that,” I said, deciding to shift the focus to myself.

“I assume it was your dad who got you into cooking?”

“Yep. He loves food. Loves bringing people together around a table. Some of my best memories are of him teaching me to make his famous Sunday sauce or showing me how to tell when bread was perfectly baked just by the sound it made when you tapped the crust.”

He nodded like he knew exactly what I was talking about.

“I love my dad and the inspiration he gives me, but my number one goal is to prove I’m more than Desman Hartley’s daughter. There are some big expectations.”

“What kind of expectations?”

I sighed, feeling the familiar weight of it all. “The kind that come with having a certain last name.”

He nodded again. “I suppose I know a little something about that.”

“I can hold my own in the kitchen and I firmly believe in the connection food brings. It doesn’t matter who you are, rich or poor, young or old, or what culture you grew up in, food is the one thing people can find common ground on.”

I stopped walking, caught up in the emotion of what I was saying. “I want to be part of something bigger. I want to feed people, really feed them. I want to create experiences that matter. Memories. Ten years down the road I want someone to smell something or taste something and remember that time they were with their aunt or parent or friend.”

When I looked up, Rhett had stopped too and was staring at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. There was something in his expression I couldn’t quite read. Like he was seeing me for the first time.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. Had I said too much? Gotten too personal?

He didn’t answer right away, just kept looking at me with those dark eyes that looked straight into my soul. I glanced down, wondering if I’d stepped in something or spilled pizza sauce on my dress. But when I looked back up, he was right there, closer than he’d been a moment before.

His hand came up to my face, one finger sliding under my chin to tilt it up toward him. The touch sent electricity racing through every nerve ending I possessed.

“What are you—” I started to say, but the words died as his lips met mine.