Page 9 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

It was a joke. The reporters were firing questions at him about me. That was annoying.

The next fifteen minutes felt like fifteen hours. I stood there like a mannequin while they asked Desman questions about me as if I wasn’t standing right fucking there.

“How does it feel to work with the infamous Rhett Voss?”

“What can you tell us about his involvement in the tour?”

“Is it true he’s bringing some of his signature dishes?”

Desman ate it up. His arm was draped around my shoulders like we were old fraternity brothers. I forced my face into what I hoped passed for a smile while inside I was calculating how I could escape.

“Rhett’s one of the most innovative chefs of his generation,” Desman said, squeezing my shoulder. “We’re lucky to have him.”

More flashes. More questions. More of Desman’s hand on my back, steering me into different poses. I felt like a show dog being positioned by its handler. As long as no one checked my haunches, I could grin and bear it.

“Can you give us a handshake?” one photographer called out.

I extended my hand to Desman and our fingers gripped as more cameras clicked. His smile was genuine. Mine felt like it was carved into my face with a dull spoon.

“Now arms around each other’s shoulders!”

Desman threw his arm around me again, and I reciprocated, my hand landing on his shoulder blade. Everything about this man screamed success and comfort, while I felt like I was wearing a straitjacket. He was meant for the spotlight. I was meant for the kitchen.

“Perfect! One more!”

“Just a few more shots!”

“Look this way!”

The voices blended together into white noise. I counted backward from ten in my head, a trick I had learned to keep from completely losing my shit in situations like this. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven⁠—

“I think that’s enough for now,” Simone’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

Bless that woman.

Desman clapped me on the back one final time. “Go grab a drink at the bar,” he said, already turning toward another group of guests. “My signature cocktails are the best in the city and you look like you could use one, my friend.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I peeled away from the media circus and headed toward the sprawling black glass bar, loosening my tie as I walked. The relief of escaping those cameras was immediate, like stepping out of a sauna into air-conditioning.

The bartender didn’t even look up. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever’s strongest,” I said.

Simone and Conroy ordered their own cocktails. We took in the room slowly. This was Simone’s territory. She could smell status before it spoke.

I took my drink, sampled the flavor, and sighed at the warmth it lit in my chest. “I’ll have another one in a minute,” I told the bartender.

Simone raised a brow. “You sure that’s how you want to start the night?”

“If I don’t have a drink, I’m going to throw someone’s camera in the deep fryer.”

“Fair,” she said.

We took our cocktails and moved around the room in search of where we would be seated for the night. Our table was set near the front, elevated just slightly above the rest, close to the stage where the speeches would be. We sat down and quietly watched.

Fashion people. Food bloggers. A couple old-school chefs I vaguely recognized but didn’t respect. It all felt very performative.

“I give it twenty minutes before I’m bored out of my skull,” Conroy muttered.