Page 86 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“But then I wouldn’t get to see you anymore. I wouldn’t get to cook alongside you or learn from you.”

Something shifted in his expression, sadness flickering across his features. “I know.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” he said, so firmly that it caught me off guard. “No, that’s not what I want at all.”

“Me neither.”

We looked at each other with both of us acknowledging what we wanted but also understanding the obstacles in our way. The age difference, the professional complications, the media scrutiny that would inevitably follow—none of it would be easy.

But sitting there with him and his hand on mine, I found myself thinking that maybe some things were doable, even if they were difficult.

How bad could it be? People would talk shit and then they would move on. Being with him would make it worth it, right?

Maybe for me it would, but I couldn’t ask him to sacrifice his career.

Rhett leaned forward, his intention clear in the way his gaze focused on my mouth. My breath caught as he moved closer. I found myself tilting toward him, drawn by the gravity of everything we shared and everything we wanted to share.

Kissing him in public would set the ball rolling. He was leaning in. That had to mean he was ready.

Oh God.

It was happening.

Just as his lips were about to meet mine, the cathedral’s main doors burst open with a sound like thunder. Cold air rushed in.

The entire room went silent. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, wine glasses paused halfway to lips. Every head turned toward the entrance. Audible gasps echoed off the stone walls as a group of men strode through the doorway like they owned the place.

Maybe they did.

There were five of them, all dressed in expensive black suits that probably cost more than most people made in a month. Their jewelry caught the candlelight. Thick gold chains, watches that gleamed like small suns, and rings that looked heavy enough to do damage in a fight. They moved with the kind of confidence that came from never having to ask permission for anything.

But what struck me most was how much they looked like Rhett.

The resemblance was unmistakable. The same dark hair, the same strong jawline, the same piercing eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. They were older, harder around the edges, but the family connection was written in their bone structure and the way they carried themselves.

The men were badasses. Scary badasses. I didn’t know who they were, but it was obvious they were related. I suddenly understood where Rhett got the air of danger from.

It just oozed out of all of them.

Rhett went rigid beside me, his hand suddenly tense under mine.

“What is it?” I whispered, though I was already getting to my feet along with everyone else in our section. “Who are they?”

But Rhett didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched. There was something in his expression I had never seen before—not frustration or irritation.

He was pissed.

Furious.

The men swept their gazes across the room, clearly looking for someone specific. They looked like predators. When the tallest one’s eyes found Rhett, his face split into a smile.

“There he is,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the silent sanctuary.

The other guests were murmuring. Everyone was uncertain and uncomfortable with this intrusion into what had been such a perfect evening. Father McKenna appeared from somewhere near the altar, his expression concerned as he approached the uninvited visitors.

“Gentlemen,” he said with the kind of calm authority that came from years of pastoral care. “I’m afraid this is a private event. If you would like to make a reservation for one of our public services⁠—”

“We’re not here for God, Padre,” the tall man interrupted, never taking his eyes off Rhett.

My blood went cold. These weren’t random party crashers or overzealous fans.

They were here for Rhett.

Did chefs have enemies?

Maybe this whole chef thing wasn’t what I thought it was.