Page 72 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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RHETT

The quick, unplanned pop-up in Phoenix was not my idea. Desman had called the night before Vegas. A chef in Phoenix was begging for us to serve a meal. And since we technically had a couple of days between Vegas and LA, it was a go.

We were serving a traditional turkey dinner elevated to fine dining standards, but still recognizable as the comfort food people craved this time of year. We were using several members from the Vegas team since there wasn’t a lot of time to screen Phoenix locals.

I should have been in my element. But I couldn’t focus. Not when Clementine was moving through the kitchen like a ghost. She wasn’t talking to me, but that was nothing new. She wasn’t talking to anyone. She wasn’t suggesting additions to the menu or adding to a recipe. She was like a drone.

She’d been off since Vegas. Not her cooking. That remained flawless. But everything else had changed. Her usual confidence had hardened into something brittle and defensive. She avoided eye contact and kept conversations strictly professional. She barely said a word to anyone else in the kitchen.

It was driving me fucking insane.

I watched her now as she plated the brussels sprouts with mechanical efficiency. She had each portion down to an art. Like a carbon copy on every plate. Her posture had changed. She kept her shoulders squared and her jaw set like she was bracing for impact. The other students gave her a wide berth, sensing the invisible wall she had erected around herself.

What the hell was her problem?

I replayed that night in Vegas a dozen times, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong. The service had been flawless. It was easily one of the best we had on the entire tour. Sure, there had been that moment with the dessert disaster, but we recovered beautifully. The press coverage had been stellar and we took in a lot of money. Desman had been thrilled with the donations.

So why was she acting like I personally insulted her entire bloodline?

The last plates of the main course went out at exactly eight-thirty, leaving us with a brief lull before dessert service. I used the opportunity to check each station.

“Hartley,” I called out as she headed toward the storage tent with an empty serving platter. “I need to see you for a minute.”

She paused, her grip tightening on the platter. For a second, I thought she might ignore me entirely. Then she nodded curtly and continued toward the tent, leaving me to follow.

The storage area was cramped and dim, lit only by a single work light strung from the tent’s center pole. Boxes of extra plates and glassware were stacked along the walls, creating narrow pathways between towers of supplies.

“What did you need, Chef?”

The formal title grated against my nerves.

“What’s your problem?” I asked, cutting straight to the point. “You’ve been acting like I kicked your dog.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly, the first genuine expression I’d seen from her all evening. “My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem. The attitude, the cold shoulder, the way you’re treating me like I’m radioactive. What’s your deal, Hartley?”

“You,” she said simply.

“Me? What the fuck did I do?”

“Really?” She stepped closer, her composure cracking just enough to let some heat through. “You’re really going to stand there and pretend you don’t know?”

“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” And I didn’t. That was the most infuriating part—I genuinely couldn’t figure out what had triggered this dramatic personality shift.

“Vegas,” she said, like it should explain everything. “The dessert. The interview after the service.”

It took me a second to connect the dots. “The interview? You’re pissed because of the interview?”

Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “Oh, you do remember. I was starting to think you’d completely erased it from your memory.”

“What about it?” I was genuinely confused now. “It went great. The diners loved everything, the press was fantastic⁠—”

“You took credit for my dessert.” The words came out flat and accusatory. “I saved your ass when Jeremy fucked up, and you stood up there and talked about your creative vision like you planned it all along.”

I stared at her, trying to process what she was saying. “Are you serious right now? You’re upset because I didn’t mention you by name in a press interview?”