Page 83 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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RHETT

Chicago in mid-November was exactly as I remembered it. Relentlessly cold, perpetually gray, with wind that could cut through bone. Rain lashed against the windows of our hotel as we prepared for the second-to-last event of the tour. I could already hear the complaints from guests who would have to brave the weather in their evening wear.

The venue was a stroke of genius, though. St. Michael’s Cathedral sat like a Gothic fortress against the Chicago skyline. The stone walls and stained-glass windows promised sanctuary from the November storm. Inside, the soaring ceilings and ornate architecture created an atmosphere that was both intimate and grand. It was exactly the kind of backdrop that would make this dinner memorable long after the last course was served.

I arrived early to oversee the kitchen setup. My breath was visible in small puffs as I walked from the taxi to the cathedral’s side entrance. The wind cut through my coat. I found myself actually grateful for the warmth of the industrial kitchen.

The space buzzed with familiar energy as the team arrived. Equipment was being tested and ingredients were being inventoried. It was the careful choreography of prep work. Prep could make or break a service.

Clementine walked into the kitchen like a burst of sunshine. She was wearing a bright yellow sweater and black slacks. Her earrings caught the light as she moved—tiny turkeys that dangled and swayed with each step. It was so completely absurd that I found myself smiling before I could stop myself.

“Good afternoon, Chef,” she said as she passed me. There was actual warmth in her voice. Not flirtatious exactly, but a lot better than the cold shoulder I had been getting.

She moved through her prep with renewed energy, joking with a couple of the chefs about the weather. The playful confidence was back. I realized how much I missed her vibrant energy. Everyone else was in the black uniform I required. She stood out like the prettiest sore thumb.

When she caught me watching her, she flashed me a smile that did things to my body I couldn’t explain. My heart kicked. My cock jumped. It was the kind of smile that suggested forgiveness. And maybe a promise.

The choir began their rehearsal in the main sanctuary, their voices echoing through the stone corridors and adding an ethereal quality to our prep work. Outside, the wind howled like something alive and angry, but inside we were all warm and safe.

Conroy appeared in the kitchen doorway, grinning like he had just won the lottery.

“Guess who got a clean bill of health from the doctor?” he announced, rolling his shoulder in a wide circle to demonstrate his restored range of motion. “Physical therapy worked like a charm. I’m ready to jump back in, Chef.”

Conroy had been my right hand forever. I missed him running things with me. Having him back should have been cause for celebration.

But I found myself glancing automatically at Clementine. The expression on her face made my heart sink. The color drained from her cheeks as she registered what Conroy’s return meant. She would be relegated back to student status. I had put more responsibility on her during the last couple of services. She could do a lot more than garnish plates. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew I needed to take advantage of her talent.

And I had been. But Conroy was also a talented chef. I watched Clem look back to the station she had been prepping. There was no hiding her disappointment.

She recovered quickly, her professional mask sliding into place, but not before I saw the devastation flicker across her features. She forced a smile and pretended like it never happened.

“Conroy, can I have a word?” I said, nodding toward a quieter corner of the kitchen.

He followed me, still grinning, still completely unaware of the emotional minefield he just wandered into.

“Listen,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “I’m thrilled that you’re feeling better. Honestly, it’s a huge relief. But Clementine has really proven herself. She’s earned her spot at that station, and I don’t feel right taking it away from her in the final hour.”

Conroy’s smile faded as he processed what I was telling him. “You want me to step aside?”

“Just for tonight,” I said quickly. “Let her finish strong. She’s been busting her ass, and she deserves to see this through.”

For a moment, I thought he might argue. Conroy had every right to reclaim his position. It was his job. And I knew he was anxious to get back into the swing of things.

But after a long pause, he nodded slowly.

“You’re right,” he said. “She has been killing it. And honestly, after being on the bench for so long, I’m probably a little rusty anyway. Tonight isn’t the night to see if my knife skills are what they were before the injury.”

The relief I felt was immediate and overwhelming. “Thank you. I know this isn’t easy.”

“What can I do instead?” he asked. “I don’t want to just stand around looking pretty. Can I have a beer?”

I thought for a moment, remembering the long line of guests who cooked in the Miami heat while waiting to enter our first pop-up. “Remember how well it went over when Clementine handed out drinks to the people waiting in line? Maybe you could do something similar—pass out hot toddies or mulled wine? People are going to be freezing their asses off out there.”

His face brightened. “I like it. Give them a taste of hospitality before they even get inside. I’ll coordinate with the front-of-house team.”

He rushed away.