Page 82 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“Goodnight, Clem,” he said softly.

I watched him walk down the hallway toward his own room. I could feel my self-control slipping. He was gorgeous. Available. And he wanted me.

But I couldn’t do it.

I let myself into my room and immediately slumped against the closed door with my heart still racing from the kiss. The complete emotional whiplash of the entire evening left me so twisted up.

I changed into pajamas and went through my nighttime routine while my mind spun in circles. Every rational thought told me to stay away from Rhett. He was my boss, he was emotionally volatile, and he had already hurt me once in ways that had left deep scars.

But then I considered the fact I mattered to him in ways that went beyond professional convenience.

I curled up in the hotel room’s oversized chair and stared out at the glittering LA skyline, trying to sort through the mess of emotions churning in my chest. The pit in my stomach was equal parts arousal and nerves. That kiss. Damn. The man could kiss.

Would I be making the biggest mistake of my life if I let him back in?

The logical part of my brain laid out all the reasons why this was a terrible idea. When the tour ended, he would go back to his restaurant and his celebrity chef lifestyle. Where exactly would I fit into that picture? I was twenty-four years old, barely out of culinary school, the daughter of a man who could make or break careers with a single phone call.

The media would have a field day if they caught wind of anything between us. They’d tear him apart for “robbing the cradle” and accuse him of taking advantage of his position. They would accuse me of sleeping my way to the top instead of earning my place.

And even if he said he wanted me in his life—really wanted me, not just for convenient hotel room hookups—what was stopping him from changing his mind three days from now? The guy was a pendulum, swinging from hot to cold without warning. I had already experienced his capacity for cruelty when he felt cornered or threatened.

Could I trust him not to hurt me again? Could I trust myself not to lose my identity trying to become whatever version of me he wanted on any given day?

Every single rational thought, every logical argument, every piece of self-preservation instinct I possessed told me to stay away.

My heart had other ideas.