Page 111 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

As the kitchen wound down and staff began cleaning up, I slipped out the back door into the alley behind the hotel. I wasn’t expected to clean up and I had no intention of sticking around any longer than necessary. The cold air was a welcome relief after hours in the hot kitchen.

“Clementine Hartley?”

I spun around to see a man with a camera and a predatory smile approaching me.

“I’m Jake Morrison from City Scene Magazine. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about what it’s like working so closely with Chef Voss? There are rumors that you two have gotten… close.”

My heart started hammering. “I’m not interested in talking to you.”

“Come on, just a few questions. What’s it like to work with someone so intense? Is he as passionate in the kitchen as he is in his personal relationships?”

“Please leave me alone.” I backed toward the door, but he followed.

Of course, the damn door locked from the inside. There was no getting back in unless I rang the bell. The last thing I needed was more attention.

I started walking toward the street. It felt like the lesser of two evils. More reporters and questions were better than being caught in a dark alley with the man on my heels.

“Look, everyone knows something’s going on. Why not tell your side of the story? What’s it like to make out with a chef connected to the mob?”

“Get lost,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.

“Just one quote.”

“She said get lost.” Rhett’s voice cut through the alley like a blade.

I spun around. I could see the dangerous set of his shoulders. Wearing all black in the shadows made Rhett look every inch the mafia badass they were trying to make him out to be.

The reporter took one look at Rhett’s expression and practically ran away.

“Thank you,” I said quietly once we were alone.

“Don’t mention it,” he grunted.

We stood there in awkward silence, the space between us feeling like an ocean. He had changed out of his chef’s coat and was wearing a simple black sweater with a clean pair of black pants.

“You look nice,” he said finally, his voice softer than it had been all night.

“Thank you.”

More silence. I could feel all the words we weren’t saying burning in the air between us. There were a thousand apologies, explanations, and confessions that would only make everything worse.

“This has been an experience of a lifetime,” I said because I needed to say something, needed to acknowledge what we had shared over these past weeks.

“Don’t,” he said immediately.

“Don’t what?”

His eyes met mine. I saw all the pain I had been trying to ignore reflected back at me.

“It sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”