Chapter 2
CLEMENTINE
Ihad no idea a man could wield a pair of tongs like a samurai sword, but Chef Hwan made it happen right before my eyes. The man moved with such speed and control that I swore he could have seared beef tenderloin blindfolded and still plated it with garnish and all.
My father’s kitchen was awash in mouth-watering aromas.
Notes of garlic and sesame oil, sharp vinegar and rendered fat filled the air like a sweet symphony.
Flames leapt up around the wok as Hwan tossed in strips of marinated ribeye.
I watched the edges caramelize instantly and nearly moaned with pleasure at the smell of fat sizzling.
I was a twenty-four-year-old woman who got more excited over a perfectly cooked piece of meat than I did watching movies like Magic Mike. Food was what got my engine revving.
Good food. It was my love language.
Maybe that’s why I’m so painfully single, I thought.
I leaned forward from my perch on the bar stool, my elbows pressing into the cold granite countertop, my phone forgotten on the kitchen island. I was too focused on watching him move. The kitchen was his stage, and Hwan was a dancer. A magician. A god of soy sauce and perfect char.
He cracked a joke about my father’s dull knives.
I laughed. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that, or he’ll spend the next hour sharpening every blade in this kitchen.”
Hwan grinned, never taking his eyes off the searing meat.
“Your father has good taste in equipment. Just needs better maintenance.” He flipped the beef with a quick flick of his wrist, sending another burst of flames dancing up the sides of the wok.
“But his daughter? She has the eye. I see you watching. You see what I do before I do it, yes?”
Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the blazing stove.
He was right. I’d been anticipating his next moves, mentally cataloging his techniques, absorbing every detail like a sponge.
The way he controlled the heat, the precise timing of each addition to the pan, the confidence in every gesture—it was exactly what I wanted to master.
“I’ve been cooking since I could hold a spoon,” I said, sliding my hand over my pixie cut. I was still getting used to the short hair. I loved it but I hadn’t kicked the habit of tucking nonexistent hair behind my ear. “But watching you work is like seeing poetry in motion.”
“Poetry! I like that. In Korea, we say cooking is like making love. Timing is everything, and you must pay attention to every sound.” As if to demonstrate, he tilted his head toward the wok. “Listen. You hear that? The sizzle changes when the sugars caramelize. That’s when you add the sauce.”
I closed my eyes and listened, picking up the subtle shift in pitch as the meat reached that perfect point of browning. When I opened them, Hwan was already drizzling his sauce mixture over the beef, creating another spectacular burst of steam and flame. My mouth watered.
“Please tell me you are not talking about sex with my daughter,” Dad said as he strolled into the kitchen.
“Dad, no. Gross.”
“You heard it,” Hwan said, ignoring my father. “Most people cook with their eyes. Good cooks use their ears. Great cooks?” He tapped his chest. “They cook with their heart.”
“Teach me everything,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess myself. “I mean, if you have time. I know you’re here visiting Dad, but—”
“But you want to learn the fire dance,” he finished with a bright smile. “Good. Your father told me you have the passion for the craft. Now I see he was right.”
Dad smiled and nodded. “I wanted her to be an accountant, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Good.” Hwan gestured for me to come around to his side of the island. “Here, take the tongs. Show me what you can do.”
My heart hammered against my ribs as I moved to stand beside him. He was a celebrity in the cooking world. It was my chance to prove I belonged in a kitchen with chefs of his caliber, that I was more than just the daughter of a three-star chef riding on family connections.
Chef Hwan was in town prepping for a private event we were hosting as part of the pre-launch for the Feed America Thanksgiving Tour.
I knew he would be cooking and even help prep the ingredients, but watching him now, in full swing?
It felt unreal. Like I had stepped inside an episode of Chef’s Table and someone had forgotten to tell me I wasn’t just a viewer.
My dad stepped on the other side of Hwan, rolled up his sleeves, and joined in.
My father, Desman Hartley, wasn’t just a world-famous restaurateur—he was a born entertainer. Give him a stove and an audience, and he lit up like Christmas. He clapped Hwan on the back, grabbed a skillet, and before I knew it, the two of them were dueling with flames.
“Clem, get this on your socials,” my dad called.
I fumbled for my phone and quickly pulled up my camera app.
I snapped a couple of stills and then flipped over to video.
And then, because it was too good not to let the world see what was happening in the place I called home, I went live.
I tagged my dad and Hwan. They were big stars compared to me. Their tags would bring in the audience.
And it did.
It was maybe two minutes before there were a hundred people watching and it was steadily climbing.
“I’m dying,” someone wrote.
“This is culinary porn,” another said.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
Because yeah, this was my dream. To be this good. To have this kind of control, this rhythm, this speed. To move through a kitchen like it was an extension of my body. I’d been chasing it for years but moments like this reminded me it was possible.
After the meal was made, I ended the livestream. My mother, Rosita, had already set the long walnut dining table in the formal dining room. She lit the tall taper candles and opened a bottle of wine. Eating was an experience in our house. My dad loved to cook and my mother loved to entertain.
Henry, my younger brother, strolled into the dining room wearing workout clothes.
“I see your timing is impeccable as always,” I quipped.
He winked at me. I was average height and build. My little brother was tall and very muscular. The hours he spent at the gym made sure he stayed ripped. He was a lady-killer with his short, dark hair, square jaw, and those stupid long black eyelashes that definitely made me jealous. It wasn’t fair.
But he was my little brother and I loved him.
Most days.
He could be a pain in the ass. He was seventeen and easily the most popular kid in school, but he was also very humble.
And if he got too cocky, I had no problem humbling him.
I kind of made it my mission to remind him he was still a normal human even if he thought of himself as the next Peyton Manning.
We all sat down. It was the formal dining room in my parents’ very lavish home, but we were all dressed very casually.
Henry was all sweaty and stinky from his hours at the gym.
I was in jeans and a hoodie. My parents were definitely in the upper-class realm of things, but I never thought of us like that. We were just regular people.
“I’m looking forward to tomorrow night,” Hwan said between bites, leaning back in his chair.
Mom smiled warmly. “You’re not the only one. A lot of people are excited to see you, Chef.”
“It’s all for the cause,” Hwan said, raising his glass. “We feed. We inspire. We raise some money. And we party. Not bad for a Thursday.”
I clinked glasses with him. “So who’s actually coming to this thing?”
Hwan gave me a mischievous grin. “The whole tour crew. A few local reporters. A couple influencers I don’t hate. Oh, and—” He turned to my dad. “Have you told her about Rhett Voss yet?”
I nearly choked on my wine. Rhett freaking Voss?
That man had been the star of so many of my wet dreams. I had his picture as the wallpaper on my phone a few years ago.
That was the level of obsession I had with the man.
I had caught a wild crush on him after attending one of his culinary courses for up-and-coming chefs.
He never noticed me, of course, but I certainly noticed him.
Damn.
I still remembered his forearms, the way the tendons in his hands flexed when he cut an onion. The tattoos. Oof. There was nothing about that man that wasn’t sexy. He was a walking advertisement for condoms. Because any woman that saw him wanted to take him to bed.
My mom snapped her fingers in my face. “Clem. Earth to Clementine. You listening?”
I blinked and sat up straighter. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”
I could feel my cheeks burning. Good god. If they knew what I was thinking.
My father set his fork down. “Your mom and I wanted to wait until tonight to tell you. But I pulled a few strings.”
“A few strings? For what?”
“You’ve been busting your ass,” Dad said. “And I see you. You’re ready. So… if you want it, I’ve cleared your schedule for the next month. I’d like you to join us on tour.”
I stopped breathing for a second. “What?”
“Come with us. We want you on the team. In the kitchen.”
“You’re serious?” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded. “We’ll be hitting some of the best restaurants in the country. Watch anyone you want. Learn from the best. I’ve already made some calls.”
I shot out of my chair so fast it nearly toppled. I flew around the table and tackled him in a hug that might’ve cracked a rib. “You’re kidding me—no, don’t kid me. Are you serious serious?”
He hugged me back. “Serious serious.”
“This is amazing,” I breathed, squeezing him harder. “Dad. Thank you. Holy shit.”
Mom gave me her patented language eyebrow, but she was smiling, too. She understood what a huge deal this was for me.
I sat back down, still stunned, still buzzing, heart practically beating out of my chest.
“And yes,” my dad added. “I’ve arranged time for you to observe Rhett Voss in the kitchen.”
This time, I did choke.
Henry snorted from across the table. “You okay, Clem?”
No. No, I was not.
Because Rhett Voss wasn’t just some name. He was the name. The Michelin-star bad boy.
Now I was going to be right there. Up close. In his space. With his fire.
Oh god.
What if I tripped? What if I said something dumb? What if I stared too long at his hands again and he caught me and kicked me out of the kitchen? What if I spilled hot oil on him? What if… it all went perfectly and Rhett Voss saw all my potential and took me under his wing?
“Thank you,” I said quietly to my dad. “I really mean it.”
“I know,” he said. “But I also know you’re going to have to work twice as hard out there. You’re my daughter. Some people are going to say you didn’t earn your spot.”
I nodded.
“But they would be wrong,” he said. “You’ve got what it takes, Clem. I’ve seen it.”
I swallowed hard and nodded again.
Was I ready for this?
No.
But I was going anyway.