Page 93 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

Every rational part of my brain screamed that this was a terrible idea. The last thing I needed was to complicate things further. But there was something in her eyes—not pity, not curiosity, just genuine concern—that made me step aside.

She obviously had questions.

“Against my better judgment,” I said.

She smiled and walked past me into the room. “Your better judgment is overrated anyway. I think you would be much happier just doing what you want instead of overthinking everything.”

She wasn’t wrong but consequences tended to put a real damper on things.

“Oh, does this work?” Clementine asked.

I had a fireplace in my suite, one of those fancy hotel amenities that made a room just a little cozier. Chicago winters were no joke.

Clementine turned it on and cranked the heat. The storm outside was picking up, rain pelting against the windows. The whole scene felt impossibly intimate.

“So,” she said, working on the champagne cork. “Want to talk about tonight?”

“Not particularly.”

“Come on, Rhett.” The cork popped with a satisfying sound. “I won’t judge. I promise.”

I sat down across from her, accepting the champagne flute she offered. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

I took a long sip, buying time. How do you explain a lifetime of baggage to someone who sees the world through rose-colored glasses?

“Your family is rowdy, but they love you.”

I snorted. “I think there is something called too much.”

“You have a large family.”

“I do. Too large.”

She laughed. “There is no such thing.”

“Trust me, there is.”

“I can only imagine how loud your family gatherings are.”

I rolled my eyes. “You can’t imagine it. It’s pure chaos.”

“How big is your family?”

She was gently fishing for information. I didn’t blame her after what she had seen tonight. And it was all going to be in the news over the next couple of days. It was probably better to get ahead of it now.

“Very large. My father has eight brothers and sisters. They have all figured out the whole breeding thing. I honestly couldn’t give you a number.”

“Ballpark it,” she said. “How many people would you normally expect at your Thanksgiving?”

I laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Forty? Fifty? Maybe more depending on who’s out of prison that week. And usually it starts with fifty, but by the end of the meal, it doubles. It’s like a bat signal goes up. When someone hears there’s food, it sends out an alert and everyone just shows up. They bring their cousins and it’s like a snowball rolling downhill.”

Clementine’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t flinch. She just took another sip of champagne and waited for me to continue.

“My father’s side of the family is…” I paused, searching for the right words. “Complicated. They’re not bad people, Clem. They’re just loud and they have zero filter, and they come from a world where subtlety isn’t valued.”

“Where do you guys meet up?” she asked. “I mean, who has a house that big?”