Page 77 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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RHETT

Ihad never been a fan of LA. The city sprawls out like a fever dream, all palm trees and smog and pretty people. It’s too busy, too kooky, too full of people chasing dreams that were probably better left as fantasies.

The luxury town car glided through traffic on the 405. I watched the familiar parade of strip malls and billboards slide past the tinted windows. Everything here felt like a movie set. Even the palm trees looked fake, too perfectly spaced along the median strips like someone had planted them with a ruler.

“Oh my God, I love Hollywood!” Simone pressed her face to the window like an excited kid. “Look at those hills! And the sign—you can actually see it from here! I’m so glad we have a few days to explore. I need to hit Rodeo Drive. I heard there’s this amazing vintage shop in West Hollywood that all the stylists shop at. I want to pick up a few cool things. Maybe I’ll find some old Hollywood starlet castoffs.”

She bounced slightly in her seat, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. For Simone, every city was an adventure waiting to happen. It was endearing, usually, but today it felt grating against my already raw nerves.

Clementine sat in the far corner of the back seat, as physically distant from me as the car’s dimensions would allow. Treating me with the kind of polite professional courtesy you’d show a stranger. No warmth, no acknowledgment of our shared history, good or bad. Just cold, efficient interaction when absolutely necessary for logistics.

It was driving me fucking insane.

Conroy shifted uncomfortably beside me. “I’ve got an appointment with a specialist this afternoon,” he said, breaking the silence. “Going to start some physical therapy, see if we can get this thing sorted sooner rather than later.”

“That’s smart,” I replied, grateful for something normal to focus on. “How’s the pain level?”

“Manageable.”

Conroy had been my right hand for too long. I was struggling without him. The idea of him being sidelined permanently was almost too much to contemplate.

“Whatever you need,” I said. “Time off, modified duties, whatever.”

“I’m meeting up with an old friend for drinks,” Simone announced, pulling out her phone to check messages.

Which meant tonight would be just Clementine and me. I felt equal parts anticipation and dread. We needed to clear the air, needed to address what had happened in Vegas before the tension between us poisoned the entire rest of the tour.

For whatever reason, I didn’t like the idea of her being pissed at me. It wasn’t just that she was pissed at me. She was furious.

I glanced over at her, taking in the sharp line of her profile as she stared out her window. She looked tired, older somehow than she had just a week ago. There were shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide, and her mouth was set in a line.

I had done that to her. My words, my cruelty, my inability to handle the complicated mess of feelings she stirred up in me. It made me feel like shit.

The hotel was everything I expected. If they screwed up and only gave us two rooms, I wouldn’t be all that upset. It would mean she had to talk to me. The lobby was filled with too many mirrors, staff who smiled with their mouths but not their eyes. We checked in with the usual efficiency. No drama. No messed-up reservations.

“I’ll see you all in the morning,” Clementine said to the group, her tone pleasant and professional. She didn’t look at me directly, but I caught the deliberate way she included me in the collective dismissal without singling me out.

At least she wasn’t letting on there was drama. I appreciated that.

I watched her walk toward the elevators, acting like the professional chef she was becoming. But I knew her well enough now to see the slight stiffness in her shoulders.

When I looked back, both Conroy and Simone were staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

Simone shook her head. “I’m going to my room.”

“You should fix that,” Conroy muttered.

I ignored them both and headed for the elevators.

The afternoon passed with me in my room. I handled business and did everything I could not to let the guilt eat at me.

By evening, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I found myself standing outside her room at seven-thirty, my hand raised to knock but frozen by second thoughts. It was uncharted territory for me. The whole feeling of genuine remorse and the need to make amends felt weird. I spent most of my adult life convinced that showing weakness was the fastest way to lose respect in the kitchen hierarchy.