Page 1 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

1

RHETT

Porcelain smashed somewhere behind me. One of my female employees yelped in surprise before crying out, “Collision!”

“Fuck me,” I growled.

Food on the floor was not a good look in a three-Michelin-star restaurant. We were better than that at Hallow, my pride and joy. I insisted upon it.

My eyes scanned the order that just popped up on the screen. Table twelve wanted their lamb medium rare, table seven needed their appetizers fired now, and table four was still waiting on their damn amuse-bouche.

“Behind hot!” Conroy shouted, weaving past me with a searing pan of duck confit.

Conroy Caines was my right-hand man. We’d worked together for four consecutive years, a true testament to his patience and grit. No employee had ever lasted that long in the kitchen with yours truly. Not because they weren’t talented in the kitchen, but because they just couldn’t take the pressure. Conroy? The guy could probably make himself comfortable in a pressure cooker if he had to.

Easily one of the worst inventions of this century. But hey, if people want tough meat cooked at a fraction of the time it deserved, so be it. Not everyone can have fully functioning taste buds.

My kitchen moved like a well-oiled machine, every chef knowing exactly where to step, when to duck, how to dance around each other without missing a beat. Except for whoever collided together and broke dishes. I could still hear people muttering under their breath as someone swept the debris into a dustpan and hollered, “Clear!”

I slammed my palm on the pass. “Where’s my scallop course for table nine?” My voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

“Plating now, Chef!” Sarah called from the fish station, her hands working quickly as she arranged three perfect seared scallops on the spotless plate.

Sweat beaded at my temples. While the AC worked, it was no match for the ovens, grills, and fryers in the industrial kitchen, not to mention the body heat of a full staff hustling the way I demand. But the guests were comfortable at their tables, a stark contrast to the chaos on the other side of the wall. Saturday nights at Hallow were controlled anarchy at its finest. I did not allow mistakes in my kitchen. My customers paid four hundred per head for the dining experience and they would get the very best this city had to offer.

“Service!” I barked, sliding the completed plates across the pass to the waiting servers, who moved quickly in their black uniforms without a speck of lint or food stains.

The dinner rush was brutal as usual, but it was just one of the many plates I was spinning. Between the PR meetings, the brand partnerships my publicist kept shoving down my throat, and trying to keep my name out of the gossip rags for all the wrong reasons, running a fine-dining kitchen felt almost simple by comparison. At least in here, I controlled everything.

I was checking the sear on a wagyu when Jessica, one of my front-of-house managers, slipped through the kitchen doors. Her usually composed expression was tight with stress. Her hair was pulled back in a smooth bun without a single hair out of place. Jessica was in her late forties and took no shit. She had raised two boys and told me during our interview if she survived that, she could survive anything.

“Chef, I need a word,” she said, keeping her voice low.

I didn’t look up from the grill. “Make it fast.”

“We’ve got a situation in the dining room. Table fifteen. They’re drunk, loud, and making the other guests uncomfortable. They’re demanding to see you specifically.” She paused. “They’re getting aggressive with the servers.”

I looked up at her.

Jessica smoothed out her uniform. “Sorry to bother you with this, Chef.”

“Conroy,” I grated.

“I’ve got the kitchen,” Conroy said, reading my mind. “Go handle the riff raff.”

Abandoning my post on a night like this wasn’t ideal, but Jessica was rattled, and I wasn’t going to tolerate that kind of behavior from clientele. This restaurant was my home away from home, and if someone wanted to fuck with my staff?

Well, they were in the wrong place. I stripped off my apron and rolled up my sleeves, letting my ink show. Sometimes the tattoos did more talking than words ever could.

And I was on fire.

Sweating.

Getting a little air on my skin felt good.

I pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. The heat and noise of the kitchen were a stark contrast to the sophisticated ambiance of the dining room I had spent years perfecting.

Hallow’s dining area stretched before me in all its moody, luxurious glory. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the glossy black marble floors. Those reflected the candlelight flickering in wall sconces and in crystal votive holders on tables draped in midnight black tablecloths. Customers wore their very best attire, not one of them looking out of place amongst the opulence.