Page 80 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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CLEMENTINE

Iwore black that night. Head to toe just like he demanded. Black chef’s coat, black pants, and black shoes. No pops of color, no personality, no trace of the vibrant person I had been just two weeks ago. I looked like I was in mourning, which wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

Rhett had sucked the life out of me.

The Hollywood venue was everything LA promised to be. It was stunning and of course full of beautiful people. I thought I recognized a few faces, but it was hard to say. The kitchen buzzed with its usual pre-service energy. I moved through it like a ghost, checking my station and avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially Rhett.

I did exactly what was asked of me. No more, no less. When orders came in, I plated them to specification. When Rhett called for adjustments, I made them without comment. When other students struggled with timing, I focused on my own station instead of jumping in to help like I normally would.

It was the most uninspiring night I had ever spent in a professional kitchen.

“Behind hot,” I called out as I carried plates to the pass, my voice flat and professional. Conroy glanced at me with concern. He was still one-armed, but he was doing what he could. He tried to joke with me, but I had no energy for friendly banter.

The evening dragged on with suffocating predictability. I watched Rhett work the line with his usual intensity, barking orders and tasting sauces, but I felt disconnected from it all. Like I was watching a movie of someone else’s life instead of living my own.

This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? A compliant student who followed instructions and didn’t cause waves. Someone who understood her place in the hierarchy and didn’t expect recognition or respect beyond what was minimally required.

Fine.

He could have exactly that.

By the time we finished breaking down our stations, I was exhausted. Not physically. It was more of an emotional numbness. Who knew being dead inside was more draining than passion?

I opened the door of the staff exit and stepped outside, already mentally planning my escape route back to the hotel, when I heard my name.

“Clementine.”

I paused, not turning around, and waited for whatever criticism or instruction was coming.

“You did great tonight,” Rhett said, his voice getting closer. “I was watching, and your execution was flawless. Every plate perfect, every timing spot on.”

I turned slowly, sure I misheard him. He was standing maybe three feet away, looking at me with something that might have been approval.

“Excuse me?” I snapped. If he was messing with me, I was so not in the mood.

“Your work tonight,” he repeated, seeming genuinely puzzled by my prickly reaction. “It was exactly what I look for in a line cook. Consistent, reliable, professional.”

I stared at him. Something hot and angry unfurled in my chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Not currently. Why?”

“Tonight? Tonight is when you decide to compliment my work?” I stepped closer, my carefully maintained composure cracking. “The night I felt like a robot going through the motions, the night I deliberately killed every spark of creativity and passion I had—that’s when you think I did great?”

“Clem, I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “For weeks I’ve been pouring my heart into every dish, trying to bring something special to each plate, showing you who I really am as a chef. And you treated me like an annoyance at best, a liability at worst. But tonight, when I shut down completely and pretended to be someone I’m not, suddenly I’m doing great work?”

He went quiet, and I could see him processing my words, maybe finally understanding what I was telling him.

“I’ve never felt so uninspired in a kitchen as I did tonight,” I continued, my voice getting louder despite my efforts to keep it controlled. The dam had broken. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I hated every second of it. But I’m glad you’re happy, Chef. Thrilled that I finally figured out how to be the kind of mindless drone you want.”

I turned to leave, but his hand caught my arm gently.

“Wait,” he said. “That’s not… that’s not what I want.”

“Isn’t it?” I pulled free of his grip and faced him again. “Because that’s sure as hell what it feels like. Every time I show personality or creativity, you shut me down. Every time I try to bring something of myself to the work, you make me feel like I’m overstepping. So tonight I gave you exactly what you seemed to want—a silent, obedient robot who follows orders.”