Page 69 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

24

CLEMENTINE

It had been a week since Austin, and the tour was hitting its stride. Austin went great. Each city brought new challenges, new energy, and I was starting to feel like I belonged in this whirlwind of culinary chaos.

And now we were in Vegas, baby.

The dinner tonight wasn’t for the people in need. It was a fundraiser. All the money would be going toward Dad’s passion project—his soup kitchen. Vegas was all about high rollers and that was what we were going to be capitalizing on. It felt like the last couple of weeks had been intense training for the Vegas dinner.

I was nervous and excited. I was so ready to prove my worth in the kitchen.

We had taken over a kitchen in the Bellagio. Rhett had been coordinating the dinner with the manager of the hotel and the restaurant. It was going to be a version of his restaurant back in Manhattan. The tables were draped in midnight black linens that made the gold cutlery gleam. Every tiny detail had been planned and coordinated. A-list guests wearing designer gowns and thousand-dollar suits were in attendance. It was the place to be in Vegas. Gordon Ramsay could eat his heart out.

Rhett Voss was in town.

Rhett Voss and team.

The kitchen was a different beast entirely. It buzzed with the kind of manic energy that only came when the stakes were impossibly high and the margin for error was nonexistent. Culinary students from the Vegas campus were busting ass to keep up with Rhett’s high standards.

I tied my apron tighter and surveyed my station. Tonight’s menu was ambitious even by Rhett’s standards. He was serving seared duck breast with pomegranate molasses, wild mushroom risotto that required constant stirring, and a dessert that involved seventeen different components. It was the kind of meal that would make or break reputations.

I knew he was swinging for the fences.

“Hartley!” Rhett’s voice cut through the kitchen noise like a blade. “Your mise en place better be perfect because I’m not running a charity kitchen tonight.”

I nodded, my hands already moving through the familiar routine of checking my prep station. Everything was arranged with military precision. This was where I thrived, in the beautiful chaos of service where there was no time to second-guess yourself.

The first orders started trickling in around seven-thirty. I moved like a machine, muscle memory taking over as I plated each dish. I knew what Rhett expected. Every chef had their own little quirks. I knew Rhett’s. I knew how to plate to his standards. The duck needed to be sliced just so, fanned across the plate at the perfect angle. The risotto had to be spooned with a specific wrist motion that created the ideal quenelle shape. The microgreens were positioned with tweezers.

He did not fuck around. The whole eat with your eyes thing was very real to him.

I felt inspired tonight in a way I hadn’t in weeks. Maybe it was the Vegas energy or maybe it was the fact the whole tour was coming to an end soon, but it just felt like we were firing on all cylinders.

Rhett prowled the kitchen like a caged predator dressed in head to toe black, as was tradition. He paused at each station, tasting, adjusting, occasionally exploding into profanity when something didn’t meet his impossibly high standards. I had seen him reduce grown men to tears with nothing but a look and a few choice words about their knife skills.

When he reached my station, I held my breath. The plates I just finished were, without false modesty, easily the best in the kitchen. The plating was flawless, the portions exact, the colors vibrant against the white porcelain. I even added a small flourish with a drizzle of pomegranate reduction that I put into a delicate spiral around the edge of the plate.

Rhett picked up one of my plates, examined it with the intensity of an art critic studying a Monet. He lifted it to eye level, checking the angles. He leaned in to smell the aromatics. For thirty seconds that felt like thirty minutes, he said nothing.

Finally, he set the plate down and gave me the slightest nod.

That was it. No acknowledgment of the extra care I had taken, no recognition that my plating was head and shoulders above everyone else’s in the kitchen. Just a nod before he moved on to tear apart Marcus’s attempt at the same dish.

“That’s it?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the kitchen noise.

Rhett paused and looked back at me, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t hand out compliments, Hartley,” he said, his tone as flat and professional as if we were complete strangers. As if he hadn’t had his hands on my body and his tongue down my throat in that Miami hotel’s hot tub.

The dismissal hurt. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I forced myself to keep my head in the game.

I threw myself back into the work, plating dish after dish with the same level of perfection The dining room was in full swing. I could hear the murmur of conversation and laughter through the pass, the clink of expensive glasses, the scrape of silverware against porcelain. But in the kitchen, time moved differently. There was only the next ticket, the next plate, the next small chance to prove myself.

By nine-thirty, we were hitting our stride. Orders were flying out of the kitchen in perfect synchronization. The front of house was singing our praises. Even Rhett seemed marginally less homicidal than usual. I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction as I watched one of my perfectly plated duck dishes disappear through the pass.

Then disaster struck.

It happened so fast I almost missed it. Jeremy, one of the quieter culinary students working the dessert station, was carrying a hotel pan full of candied pecans. It was the crucial topping for tonight’s signature dessert. His foot caught on the edge of a floor mat, and the entire pan went flying.

Hundreds of perfectly candied pecans scattered across the floor, rolling under equipment and mixing with whatever kitchen debris had accumulated throughout the night. The sweet smell of burnt sugar and maple filled the air, but not in a good way.