Page 75 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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CLEMENTINE

Imade it exactly three blocks from the market before the tears started falling. Three blocks of holding it together. But the moment I turned the corner, everything I’d been holding back came rushing out.

My hands shook as I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I found the one name that could fix everything, or at least make it hurt less.

Dad’s contact photo filled the screen. I smiled at the candid shot I had taken of him last summer, flour dusted across his apron, laughing at something my little brother had said while they worked side by side in our kitchen at home.

The phone rang twice before his familiar voice filled my ear. “Clemmie? Everything okay, sweetheart?”

Just hearing his voice made my chest tight with longing. I wanted my daddy to save the day. I hated that Rhett had reduced me to a blubbering mess.

I pressed the phone closer to my ear as if I could somehow absorb the comfort through the speaker. I found myself walking faster toward my hotel without really paying attention to where I was going.

“Dad,” I managed. My voice came out smaller and more fragile than I intended. It was my little girl voice. Not the voice of a strong, independent woman.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” The concern in his voice was immediate. I could picture him setting down whatever he was doing, giving me his full attention the way he always had since I was little. “Talk to me, kiddo.”

The endearment nearly undid me completely. I ducked into the doorway of a closed coffee shop, needing a moment to collect myself before I completely lost it on a public street.

“He’s such an ass, Dad,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Rhett Voss is a complete and total asshole. I don’t know why I ever thought he was anything different.”

“Whoa, slow down.” Dad’s voice took on that patient, gentle tone he used when one of us kids was spiraling. “What happened? Did he do something to you?”

“He’s just—” I struggled to find the words that would capture the depth of my frustration without revealing the complicated mess I’d gotten myself into. “He’s moody and unpredictable, and he’s a bully in the kitchen. He never says anything nice about anyone’s work, never gives credit where it’s due. He’s completely incapable of saying a single positive thing unless there are cameras rolling and he’s performing for an audience.”

I was pacing now in the small doorway, my free hand gesturing wildly even though Dad couldn’t see me. The words kept coming. All the frustration and hurt I’d been bottling up since Vegas poured out in an unstoppable stream.

“I thought he was different, you know? I thought maybe underneath all the celebrity chef nonsense, there was actually a decent person who cared about teaching and mentoring. But I was so wrong, Dad. He’s exactly what everyone says he is, an egomaniacal perfectionist who gets off on making other people feel small.”

“What do you mean you thought he was different?” Dad’s voice was careful, probing gently in that way parents do when they sense there was more to the story than their child was telling them.

My stomach dropped. I couldn’t exactly explain that my impression of Rhett being “different” was based on the way he’d kissed me in that hotel hot tub. That wasn’t a conversation I was prepared to have with my father under any circumstances.

“Erm.” I grasped for something plausible, something that would explain my disappointment without revealing the whole mortifying truth. “At the beginning of the tour, I thought we were becoming friends. He seemed to respect my work, you know? He actually listened when I had ideas, and there were these moments where I thought he saw potential in me.”

The lie felt bitter in my mouth, but it was close enough to the truth to be believable. There had been moments, especially early on, where I felt like we had a connection that went beyond the typical chef-student dynamic.

“But tonight, he just tore me apart in the kitchen for no reason,” I continued, building on the half-truth. “And then during the press interviews, he took full credit for something I created. Something I improvised on the spot when one of the other students screwed up a crucial component of the dessert course. I saved the entire service, Dad, and he stood up there and talked about ‘his creative vision’ like he planned it all along.”

The anger in my voice was real now, cutting through the hurt and disappointment. That part, at least, I didn’t have to fake.

“Oh, honey.” Dad’s voice was soft with sympathy. “I know that stings. I know it feels personal and unfair.”

“It is unfair!” I protested. “I worked my ass off to create something beautiful under impossible pressure, and he just erased me completely. Like I was invisible, like my contribution didn’t matter at all.”

“You’re right,” Dad said, surprising me. “It is unfair. And I’m sorry you had to experience that, especially so publicly. But sweetheart, I need you to understand something—every great chef has lost credit for something they created. It’s an ugly part of this business, but it’s not personal. You’re there to make the head chef look good.”

I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t been watching him operate for the past few weeks. This wasn’t some oversight or kitchen hierarchy thing. This was deliberate.”

“Maybe,” Dad conceded. “But consider this—Rhett is juggling an enormous amount of pressure with this tour. Multiple cities, high-profile events, teaching responsibilities, media obligations. He’s probably running on fumes and functioning in pure survival mode. It’s possible he didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Dad, you didn’t see him⁠—”

“I’m not saying it was right,” he interrupted gently. “I’m just saying that sometimes when people are overwhelmed, they make choices they wouldn’t normally make. They take shortcuts or claim credit they shouldn’t because they’re too exhausted to think clearly about the consequences.”

I wanted to argue, to insist that exhaustion didn’t excuse cruelty, but something in Dad’s tone made me pause. He wasn’t just offering platitudes. He was speaking from experience, sharing wisdom earned through decades in professional kitchens. He probably inadvertently took credit for work he didn’t create, too.