Page 66 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

23

RHETT

The pullout sofa was about as comfortable as sleeping on a medieval torture device. The mattress was thin enough that I could feel every metal bar underneath. The sheets kept pulling loose no matter how I tried to tuck them in. I had no idea who or what had slept on the mattress before me. I did not want to share skin cells and whatever else laced the damn thing. The sheets were a step above sandpaper.

But the real problem wasn’t the accommodations. It was the freight train that had apparently taken up residence in Conroy’s respiratory system.

The man snored like he was trying to wake the dead. Deep, rumbling snores that seemed to shake the entire room were punctuated by occasional snorts and gasps that made me wonder if he was actually getting any oxygen. I had shared plenty of rooms with cousins and uncles in the past but none of them were as annoying as Conroy.

I grabbed my pillow and hurled it across the narrow space between us, hitting him square in the face.

The snoring stopped instantly. Conroy mumbled something unintelligible before rolling over. Blessed silence filled the room. I settled back into the uncomfortable sofa bed with relief.

The peace lasted approximately ninety seconds before the whole symphony started up again.

“Fuck me,” I muttered, abandoning any hope of sleep.

I threw off the threadbare piece of fabric they were trying to pass off as a blanket and sat up. I glanced over at Clem and Simone, sound asleep. How in the hell were they sleeping through the snoring? And why was I aroused at the sight of Clem sleeping?

Simone lay on her back, arms across her chest in a death pose. Even in sleep she was perfectly calm.

I shook my head. I was jealous. Everyone was sleeping except me. I snatched my phone off the TV stand.

I walked toward the sliding glass door that led to the small balcony and slowly opened it. I wasn’t sure why I was trying to be quiet. Clearly the girls weren’t going to hear it and I hoped Conroy did.

I stepped out and inhaled. It was cool but not cold. The balcony offered a welcome escape from Conroy’s nocturnal concert. I leaned against the railing and took in the view. The city lights stretched for miles in every direction. The downtown skyline glowed against the dark Texas sky. From up here, the city looked peaceful, almost serene, despite the energy I knew was pulsing through the streets below.

Tomorrow’s pop-up was weighing on my mind more than I wanted to admit. We had twelve culinary students flying in from various programs across the southwest, all handpicked based on their academic records and recommendations from their instructors. For most of them, this would be the biggest professional opportunity so far.

The thought of disappointing them made my chest tight with anxiety. These kids looked up to established chefs like me. They saw me as proof that their dreams were achievable. They had probably been preparing for weeks, researching my background, studying my techniques, building up expectations about what they might learn working alongside me.

What if I didn’t live up to those expectations? What if the reputation I built was bigger than the reality of who I actually was in the kitchen? They saw me as some genius but really I was just like any other chef. It was all about using my palate to create flavors I knew would please, but the rest was just basic cooking skills and quality control.

It was a familiar fear, one that had haunted me since my first James Beard nomination. The culinary world had a way of building people up and then tearing them down with equal enthusiasm. One bad review or one off night and suddenly everyone was questioning whether you ever deserved the recognition in the first place.

I worked my ass off to get where I was, but that didn’t stop the voice in my head that whispered I was still just some kid from a questionable background who got lucky. I was afraid someone was going to notice I was fooling everyone, including myself, about having what it took to be considered a serious chef.

I sighed and pulled out my phone. It was midnight, but I knew my mom would be awake. Ma was a notorious night owl, and even though it was after one in the morning back in New York I knew she’d still be awake.

“Rhett, sweetheart!” Her voice was warm and energetic, like it was the middle of the afternoon instead of the middle of the night. “How’s my famous chef son?”

“Hey, Ma. What are you doing up so late?”

“You called me and you thought I would be asleep?”

I laughed. “Good point.”

“I’m setting up for tomorrow. You remember your third cousin Esmerelda? She’s getting married tomorrow, and they’re having the brunch at the restaurant before the ceremony.”

I had a vague memory of Esmerelda. She was a distant cousin from one of the sprawling branches of the family tree. “That’s nice. I’m sure she’ll love whatever you put together.”

“Oh, you should see the menu we planned. All the old family favorites. Nonna’s ricotta pancakes, those little sausages Uncle Sal used to make, the fruit salad with the special dressing.” Her voice grew wistful. “It’s going to be just like the old Sunday dinners at the big house, when everyone would come together and⁠—”

“Ma.” I cut her off gently but firmly. “I don’t really want to talk about the old days. Not all of those memories are good ones.”

She was quiet for a moment. I could practically feel her disappointment through the phone. The “big house” she was referring to was the family compound where my grandparents had lived, where the entire extended clan would gather for holidays and celebrations. Those memories were complicated for me. Yes they were full of love and warmth but also tied to parts of my family history I preferred to keep buried.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said softly. “I know you don’t like thinking about those times.”