Page 73 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“I’m upset because you lied!” The careful control cracked completely. Fire blazed in her eyes. She was pissed. “You stood up there and talked about your inspiration when five minutes earlier you were having a complete meltdown because you had no idea what to do!”

“That’s how kitchens work, Hartley.” I could feel my own temper rising to meet hers. “The executive chef gets credit for everything that comes out of his kitchen. He also gets the blame. That’s the hierarchy. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“Bullshit.” She stepped closer. “It wasn’t about hierarchy. It was about you taking something I created and claiming it as your own. You didn’t just accept credit—you actively lied about how it came to be.”

“I didn’t lie about anything. I talked about the dish itself, the flavors, the techniques⁠—”

“Your creative vision,” she repeated mockingly. “Your innovative approach. All words you used to describe something I made up on the spot while you were screaming at Jeremy.”

The accusation hung between us like a challenge. Part of me knew she had a point. I did get carried away in the interview. But admitting that felt like giving ground I wasn’t prepared to surrender.

“You think you deserve a fucking medal for doing your job?” I shot back. “You think you’re the first cook to ever improvise under pressure? Welcome to professional kitchens, sweetheart. This is what we do.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” Her voice was deadly quiet now. “And don’t talk to me like I’m some naive little girl who doesn’t understand how the industry works.”

“Then don’t act like one!” The words came out harsher than I intended. “You’re throwing a tantrum because you didn’t get a pat on the head and a gold star for doing what any competent cook should be able to do.”

“A tantrum?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You think this is a tantrum? You have no fucking idea.”

We were standing too close now, the small space forcing an intimacy that made the air between us feel charged and dangerous.

“Then enlighten me,” I said, my voice dropping lower. “Tell me what this is really about.”

“It’s about respect.” The word came out like a punch. “It’s about you treating me like I matter, like my contributions have value beyond just following your orders and staying out of your way.”

“You want respect? Earn it. Do the work, pay your dues, and maybe in a few years⁠—”

“A few years?” She interrupted. “I’ve been working my ass off for months. I’ve proven myself in every single service, tackled every challenge you’ve thrown at me, and saved your precious dessert course when Jeremy fucked up. But none of that matters because I’m just Desman Hartley’s daughter, right? Just some spoiled little princess who bought her way into your kitchen?”

I had wondered, in my less generous moments, how much of her spot on this tour was merit and how much was her father’s influence. Desman Hartley opened doors that stayed locked for other people.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face every time you look at me.” She was breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling with the force of her emotions. “You think I don’t belong here. You think I’m just playing dress-up until I get bored and go back to my trust fund.”

“Maybe you are.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Maybe this whole thing is just an expensive hobby for you.”

I saw the blow land, saw the way her face went white around the edges. But she didn’t back down.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, her voice shaking with fury.

The tent felt like it was shrinking around us. We were close enough to touch, close enough that I could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. For a wild moment, I thought she might actually hit me.

Instead, she stepped even closer, close enough that her breath ghosted across my face when she spoke.

“You know what I think?” she said, her voice soft and dangerous. “I think you’re scared. I think you see how good I am, how much potential I have, and it terrifies you because you know I could be better than you. So you tear me down, make me feel small and grateful and dependent, because the alternative is admitting that maybe I earned my place here.”

“You want to know what I think?” I matched her volume, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think you’re exactly what I said—immature, entitled, and completely out of your depth. You had one moment of inspiration in Vegas, and now you think you’re Gordon fucking Ramsay.”

“At least I’m not a coward who fucks around with his students and then pretends it never happened.”

The words hung between us like a lit fuse.

“That was a mistake.”

I watched the words hit her like a physical blow. Her face went very still, and for a moment I thought I saw genuine hurt flash across her features before the anger slammed back into place.

“A mistake,” she repeated flatly.