Page 47 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“That’s not—” He stopped, shaking his head. “This is supposed to be my downtime.”

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure? Scared I might show you up in your own kitchen?”

The challenge hung in the air between us. I watched him wrestle with it. Part of him was clearly tempted. I could see it in the way his eyes kept drifting to the ingredients I pulled out. His fingers twitched like they wanted to start prepping.

“No cheating,” I said and moved to block his view of the ingredients.

He rolled his eyes. “I ordered the groceries. I know what’s in there.”

“So you’re hesitating because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared of anything,” he said.

“Then prove it. Unless you’re chicken.” I completed the taunt with clucking noises.

That did it. His competitive streak won out over his desire to maintain distance, just as I hoped it would. “Fine. Twenty minutes, whatever we can make with what’s in there. But don’t come crying to me when you lose.”

“Oh, you’re going to regret that confidence,” I shot back, already moving toward the stove. “What are we cooking for? Best dish wins what?”

“Bragging rights. And winner gets the hot tub first.”

I glanced through the windows at the private balcony, where I could see the soft glow of lights around what was indeed a very inviting hot tub. “Deal.”

What followed was twenty minutes of the most intense, playful competition I experienced in months. I had participated in a few competitions but none of them had been this fun. We moved around each other in the compact kitchen space like dancers, occasionally bumping hips or reaching across each other for ingredients. He tried to steal the salt, and while he did that, I borrowed his fresh sage.

Rhett went for something classic and elegant—handmade ravioli with a brown butter sage sauce that filled the kitchen with an incredible aroma. Every technique was executed with the kind of muscle memory that came from years of professional cooking.

I decided to play to my strengths and went for something that would showcase creativity over technique—a deconstructed tiramisu with coffee-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone mousse, and a dark chocolate soil made from crushed amaretti. It was risky, attempting a dessert in twenty minutes, but I knew the flavors would work.

“That’s not going to set in time,” Rhett commented as I piped mascarpone into small glasses.

“Watch me,” I replied confidently, sliding the glasses into the freezer. “Sometimes it’s not about following every rule perfectly.”

“And sometimes shortcuts just get you subpar results.”

“We’ll find out.”

The trash talk continued as we plated, both of us getting increasingly competitive and increasingly animated. This was the Rhett I’d glimpsed on the dance floor, the one who laughed at Conroy’s disasters and shared stories about his mother. The careful control was still there, but it was channeled into creativity rather than distance.

The timer on my phone went off.

“Hands off!” I called out. When he continued to plate, I smacked his ass with a kitchen towel.

He spun around and stared at me.

I couldn’t believe I had just done that. It was a knee-jerk reaction.

Instead of yelling at me, he practiced that muscle control and arched one bushy black eyebrow. Heat pooled low in my belly.

“Someone is a little competitive,” he said.

“Yes, someone is. Cheaters never win.”

“It wasn’t cheating.

“Pretty damn close.”

We both stepped back to survey our creations. His ravioli looked like something that belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant garnished with crispy sage leaves and freshly grated parmesan. Mine looked like controlled chaos. The layers of coffee and cream and chocolate somehow melded into something that resembled art more than traditional dessert.