Page 55 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“The gentleman is unhappy with his meal. Very unhappy. He’s demanding to speak with the chef.”

My jaw clenched automatically. In fifteen years of professional cooking, I learned that complaints during service fell into two categories: legitimate issues that needed immediate correction, and entitled customers who thought making a scene would get them special treatment.

And considering what the service tonight was all about, a complaint was pretty fucking ballsy.

“What’s his specific complaint?”

“He says the fish is overcooked and the sauce is too salty.” The server hesitated.

“And what?”

“And he says if this is the quality we’re serving for charity, maybe the people we’re trying to help would be better off going hungry.”

That did it. Whatever charitable restraint I might have shown evaporated instantly. Nobody insulted my food and then had the audacity to make jokes about hungry people when we were literally feeding them.

“Where is he?” I asked, already untying my apron.

“Chef, maybe I should—” the server started, but I was already moving toward the dining room.

Table twelve was easy to spot. The man in question was holding court in the middle of the restaurant. His voice carried over the conversations of other diners as he gestured dramatically at his barely touched plate. His wife looked mortified, and the couple sharing their table appeared to be trying to disappear into their chairs.

“Is there a problem with your meal?” I asked as I approached, keeping my voice level despite the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

The man looked up at me with obvious disdain. “Are you the chef responsible for this disaster?”

“I am. And I’d like to understand what specifically⁠—”

“Specifically, this fish is rubber and the sauce tastes like seawater. I’ve had better food at a gas station.” He pushed the plate away from him like it was contaminated. “Honestly, if this is what passes for fine dining these days, I’m not surprised the restaurant industry is struggling.”

I was pissed for a number of reasons.

One, the food was free.

Two, the food was damn good.

Three, the dude was obviously not in need of shit. He was taking food out of the mouths of people that needed it.

The dining room had gone noticeably quieter, other guests turning to watch the confrontation. I could feel dozens of eyes on me. I could practically see tomorrow’s social media posts and online reviews forming in real time.

This was exactly the kind of situation that could torpedo everything I was trying to avoid.

“Sir, I’d be happy to prepare you a replacement⁠—”

“I don’t want a replacement.”

“If you’re not satisfied with⁠—”

“This whole charity thing is obviously just a publicity stunt anyway. Probably a tax write-off for whatever corporation is funding it.”

My professional composure started to crack. He wasn’t just insulting my food anymore—he was attacking the entire mission of the tour, dismissing the real impact we were having on communities across the country.

“Actually, this ‘publicity stunt’ has served over fifteen thousand meals to people in need this year alone. So maybe⁠—”

“Excuse me.” A voice interrupted what was about to become a very public meltdown. “I couldn’t help but notice there might be an issue with your meal?”

I turned to find Clementine approaching the table, and despite everything that had been brewing between us all evening, I felt a wave of relief at her presence. She was smiling—not the brittle professional smile she’d been giving me, but that disarming one that made people melt.

“There certainly is,” the man said, apparently delighted to have a new audience for his performance. “Your chef here has served me completely inedible food and now he’s lecturing me about charity work.”