Page 78 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

But this felt different. I knocked and waited.

The door opened to reveal Clementine in casual clothes, jeans and a soft gray sweater. She looked comfortable, settled in for the evening. I realized I was probably interrupting whatever quiet night she had planned for herself.

“Oh.” Her expression fell immediately when she saw me. “What do you need, Chef?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner,” I said. “There is supposed to be a good Italian place a few blocks from here, or we could try⁠—”

“No thank you,” she interrupted, already moving to close the door. “I’m going to stay in tonight. Order room service, maybe catch up on some reading.”

The dismissal was polite but final. I felt something close to panic flutter in my chest. This might be my only chance to fix what I had broken. She was slipping away before I could even try.

“Clem, wait.” I stepped closer to the door. “I know I took things too far. I wanted to apologize.”

She paused, her hand still on the door handle. “You’re about four days too late,” she said finally, and started to close the door again.

I moved without thinking, putting my foot against the door frame to stop it from shutting completely. “I’m hot-headed, I know that. And I say things in the heat of the moment that come out wrong. I’m sorry, Clem. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

For a long moment, she just looked at me. I could see her processing my words, weighing them against whatever internal scale she used to measure sincerity.

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I⁠—”

“Oh, shut up, Rhett.” She rolled her eyes, and for the first time in days, there was real emotion in her expression instead of careful blankness. “Nobody says the kinds of things you said to me unless they’re trying to hurt someone. You can tell yourself you had angelic intentions, but you and I both know that’s bullshit. You wanted to cut deep. You did. With surgical precision.”

The words hit me like a slap because they were true. In that moment in the storage tent, when I had seen the hurt and defiance in her eyes, I had wanted to wound her. I had chosen my words specifically for their ability to cut deep, to find her most vulnerable spots and press hard.

“You wanted to hurt me, so you went for what you knew would devastate me most. My relationship with my father, my place in this industry, my worth as a chef. You didn’t just criticize my work or question my abilities—you attacked the very foundation of who I am. And you knew that because I was dumb enough to tell you. Because I thought you were actually a friend.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words died in my throat because she was right, and we both knew it.

“Goodnight,” she said. And then she slammed the door hard enough that I felt the impact through the floor.

I stood in the empty hallway for a moment, staring at the closed door and feeling like I’d just fumbled the most important play of my career. The apology didn’t matter because she’d seen straight through to the ugly truth underneath.

I had wanted to hurt her. And I had succeeded beyond my wildest intentions.

Well, shit.

The hotel bar was designed to look like an old Hollywood speakeasy, all dark wood and dim lighting and bartenders in suspenders who probably had headshots in their back pockets. It was exactly the kind of place that would normally make me want to find the nearest dive bar, but tonight I didn’t have the energy to be picky.

I ordered a whiskey neat and found a corner table where I could nurse my drink in peace. The alcohol burned going down. It did nothing to ease the knot of guilt in my chest. I wasn’t used to feeling this way. I hated feeling like I had fucked up something important and wasn’t able to fix it.

Usually, kitchen drama was like weather—intense but temporary, quickly forgotten in favor of the next crisis.

But this felt different. Personal in a way that professional conflicts never were.

I was halfway through my second whiskey when I noticed them. Two men in expensive suits, sitting at the bar but clearly more interested in watching me than enjoying their drinks.

They approached my table with the confident swagger of men who had never been told no. I braced myself for whatever bullshit was coming my way.

“Voss,” the taller one said, sliding uninvited into the chair across from me. His companion remained standing, a not-so-subtle intimidation tactic that might have worked on someone who hadn’t grown up dodging criminal types.

“Do I know you?” I kept my voice level.

“Not personally,” the seated man replied. “But we know you. More importantly, we know your family. How’s daddy doing these days? Still enjoying his extended vacation courtesy of the state?”

Ice flooded my veins. Nobody knew about my father. Or my connection to him. It was my most closely guarded secret.