Page 125 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

I set the spoon down, aware that the entire kitchen had gone silent. Everyone was watching, waiting to see what I would do to the girl who’d been splashed across gossip sites with me just days ago.

“It’s fine,” I said finally, the words feeling like glass in my throat.

Clementine’s eyes widened slightly. In my kitchen, “fine” was practically a standing ovation. Everyone knew that. But I couldn’t bring myself to give her the praise she deserved, not when it would only fuel more speculation.

“Just fine?” she asked quietly.

I met her gaze and saw the hurt there, the confusion. She knew the stuffing was perfect. Hell, everyone in this kitchen knew it was perfect. But I couldn’t acknowledge that without making everything worse for us both.

“It’s adequate,” I said, hating myself with every word. “Move on to the next dish.”

Something flickered across her face. Disappointment or maybe anger. The kitchen remained unnaturally quiet, the tension so thick I could practically taste it.

With all of the side dishes ready to go, I stalked over to the carving station. I checked the turkeys that would be carved to order. I wanted to retain as much moisture as possible.

Clementine glanced over, but she quickly looked away and continued working. Her ability to just ignore me was infuriating.

My thoughts were scattered, jumping between the woman across the kitchen and the conversation with my mother yesterday. The media shitstorm was still brewing.

“Are you ready to carve, Chef?”

I nodded and picked up the knife to start carving the first turkey. I sliced through and felt relief as the juices bubbled up. It was a free meal, but I wanted it to be good.

I sliced piece after piece. I was only half-paying attention to what I was doing. I could hear Clementine talking to someone.

What was she saying? Were they talking about me?

Part of me felt protective of her. If anyone talked shit to her, they were going to have to go through me.

I was so distracted that I didn’t see the knife slip.

“Fuck!” The word exploded out of me as pain shot through my palm. Blood immediately started pouring from the deep gash across my hand.

The kitchen erupted into chaos. Three young cooks rushed over, all trying to help at once.

“Chef, let me see.”

“Get him a towel.”

“Should we call 911?”

“Get away from me!” I snarled, clutching my bleeding hand. “All of you, just back off!”

They scattered like startled birds. I felt like even more of an asshole than I already was.

Then Clementine was there. She wrapped a towel around my bleeding hand and pushed me away from the food.

“Simone!” she called. “First-aid kit, now. Conroy, you’re my second. Everyone else, back to your stations. We have three hundred people expecting dinner in thirty minutes.”

She didn’t even look at me, just started issuing orders with the kind of calm authority that made everyone snap to attention.

“Fisher, toss that turkey. Get the sanitizer. Clean up the station. You, Carly, start slicing the next turkey.”

I stood there holding my hand up with the towel wrapped around it.

“Go,” she said to me, finally meeting my eyes. “Let Simone patch you up. I’ve got this. See if you need stitches.”

“This is my kitchen.”