Page 34 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“Thank God,” I muttered.

I was worried the incident with the server would make it to the news. There were plenty of witnesses.

She showed us a sampling of social media posts and news articles, all praising the evening’s success and highlighting the emotional impact on guests who attended. There were photos of families sharing meals. A few of the attendees even provided interviews. Everyone had great things to say.

“Your involvement is being seen as genuine rather than performative,” Simone continued, nodding as she read. “That’s exactly what we hoped for. People are responding to the authenticity of the experience rather than focusing on celebrity chef dramatics. And they are really glad you weren’t being an attention whore.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m not an attention whore. The opposite. It’s not my fault I live an interesting life.”

I knew this positive coverage was fragile. One wrong move, one unflattering photo or poorly chosen quote, and the entire narrative could shift. The media loved building people up almost as much as they enjoyed tearing them down.

I was about to ask about Miami’s venue logistics when I caught movement in my peripheral vision. It was like a sixth sense. I felt her presence. My head turned almost involuntarily, tracking the familiar figure walking across the lounge entrance.

Clementine.

She was dressed for travel in dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that made her look younger and softer than she had in the restaurant kitchen. She pulled a small, wheeled suitcase behind her while scanning the lounge like she was looking for someone.

Looking for us.

The way my body responded to her presence should have been embarrassing. One day since I had seen her and my reaction was immediate and undeniable.

That was a terrible sign. How the hell was I going to stay away from her if she was going to be working alongside me every night?

“Uh-oh,” Simone said.

I dragged my attention back to her. “What?”

She was grinning like she had just won the lottery. “Nothing. Just oof.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Oh, it’s definitely an answer.” Her grin widened. “Rhett and Clementine, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

The childish song made my jaw clench with irritation, partly because she was right and partly because she was enjoying my discomfort far too much.

“You’re fired,” I said flatly.

“No, I’m not.”

“Effective immediately.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m indispensable, and we both know it.”

“Fine, but cut that shit out. We need to keep this tour professional.”