Page 54 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

19

RHETT

What the hell was going on with Clementine?

The question had been eating at me all evening as I watched her work at the garnish station. She was acting like a total stranger. There was an icy professionalism that was completely unlike her usual warmth. Every interaction between us had been clipped, formal, reduced to the absolute minimum necessary to keep service running smoothly.

I’m not your employee, Mr. Voss.

The way she’d said it—like my name tasted bitter in her mouth—had been bothering me for hours. And that fucking lime green dress. In a kitchen where I’d specifically requested everyone wear black for uniformity and professionalism, she’d shown up looking like a tropical vacation advertisement.

It was deliberate. Everything about her behavior tonight was on purpose. She had been avoiding eye contact with me for the entire service. She called out “heard” when necessary but never anything more. No comments when servers passed on compliments from diners. She was a robot.

The question was why.

I mean, I had my suspicions. After last night’s hot tub incident, she was probably feeling rejected. Maybe embarrassed. But what did she expect? That I would plow my friend’s daughter in a hot tub in Miami? It couldn’t happen. And not when she was working for me.

The Feed America was a fun little adventure for her, but this wasn’t a game to me. This was a professional endeavor with serious implications for everyone involved. I had a job to do and a reputation to maintain. One misstep on this tour, one scandal or controversy, and it could tank the entire program.

They would never give us another shot next year, and my restaurant would suffer the consequences. I had a lot of people on my payroll depending on me to keep things successful.

So sue me if I was a little tough on people sometimes. Sue me if I yelled when standards weren’t being met. It wasn’t personal. It was about maintaining the level of excellence that kept everyone earning good wages and kept the doors open.

But watching Clementine work with that rigid posture and carefully neutral expression, I was starting to think maybe it had gotten personal. Maybe my approach this morning hadn’t been entirely professional either.

She was pissed.

Last night I had convinced myself she was glad we didn’t finish what we started in the hot tub. The memory of how I had spoken to her in front of the kitchen staff made something uncomfortable twist in my stomach. I could have probably done that a little differently.

Sit down, be quiet, and let the adults handle this.

It was harsher than necessary. In my defense, I had been stressed about working with all new people. Yes, I was missing her if I was being honest. She took Conroy’s spot. Not having either of them was difficult. I couldn’t remember any of the names of the staff at the restaurant.

I didn’t get stressed very often. It was a combination of Conroy, fucking around with her, and the idea of disappointing Desman.

Still, the look on her face when I’d dismissed her? That hadn’t been the reaction of someone who was just receiving professional feedback.

That had been hurt.

Real hurt.

She was ignoring me and maybe that was for the best. Maybe this little cold shoulder treatment would make it easier to maintain the boundaries I should have established from the beginning.

Except it wasn’t easier. It was fucking miserable.

Every time I had to coordinate with her station, the tension was obvious. The other kitchen staff had noticed too. I could see them exchanging glances when they thought I wasn’t looking, picking up on the uncomfortable dynamic between us.

They were already coming up with their own stories. They were definitely assuming we were fucking. If I hadn’t gotten out of that hot tub, their assumptions would have been right.

Service was running smoothly despite the personal drama. The local cooks had settled into their rhythm after the rocky morning. The dishes were going out at exactly the pace and quality I demanded. The dining room was full of happy guests who seemed thrilled with both the food and the overall experience.

That should have been enough to satisfy me. A successful service, positive feedback, another solid addition to the tour’s growing reputation. But instead, I found myself hyperaware of every interaction with Clementine, every moment when she handed off a perfectly garnished plate without so much as meeting my eyes.

And then shit went sideways.

“Chef!” One of the servers appeared at my elbow, his face flushed with obvious agitation. “We have a problem at table twelve.”

I glanced at the pass where three plates of the fish course were waiting for garnish, then back at the server. “What kind of problem?”