Chapter 3
RHETT
Ihated wearing suits. The collar choked. The fabric itched. Nothing breathed. It was the kind of thing you’d wear to a board meeting. I didn’t do board meetings. Never had and I never would. Dressing up for me was putting on a new chef’s coat.
But I kept telling myself this was all for a good cause.
And I would get a chance to check out the competition. Not that it was truly competitive. There were plenty of restaurant patrons to go around. Desman Hartley was old school. I was new school. He was classic and I was cutting edge.
The back of the limo smelled like perfume, leather, and money. I sat stretched out, ankles crossed, arms spread along the back of the seat as the driver navigated the busy streets of downtown Manhattan.
Across from me, Simone had her iPad balanced on her crossed legs. Immaculate, of course. Hair slicked back. Eye makeup that looked like it had been done by a professional. She was born for this world of public appearances and polished answers. She made me look good.
And that was why I paid her so well. She had been my personal assistant for years, but she was more than that. She was like a mom, aunt, sister, and friend rolled into one. She kept me on time and on schedule. There was no way I could juggle all the balls I had in the air without her help.
Conroy sat beside her wearing a suit as well. He looked as miserable as I felt. Neither of us did the suit thing. And I had a feeling we both looked like boys playing dress-up. Our suits were tailored, but it was clear we didn’t know how to wear them. We didn’t know how to sit and feel normal.
“So, cocktail hour starts the moment we arrive,” Simone said. “Mingling, photo ops, introductions.”
“So ass kissing,” I muttered.
“Unprotected ass kissing,” Conroy added.
Simone didn’t look up. “Then we sit for the first course. Welcome speeches. Tour announcements. Livestreamed, by the way. So try not to look like you do right now. And for the love of all things holy, please stop messing with that damn tie.”
“I can’t breathe,” I complained.
“Me either,” Conroy added.
She ignored our complaining. “Then second course, main course, entertainment, dessert, and more entertainment,” she continued. “It goes until two. You stay until two.”
Conroy groaned. “I’m tired just hearing about it.”
Simone turned to him. “Put your big boy pants on and buckle up. This is Desman Hartley’s turf. We’re not running the kitchen tonight—we’re playing nice. He needs this. We need this.”
I rolled my eyes and stared out the tinted window. “I’m not sure how this helps anybody.”
“Feed America helps people,” Simone said. “This raises awareness. Awareness raises money.”
“I’d rather be in my uniform.”
“Black-on-black everything?” she asked. “We know.”
“At least that shit breathes.”
The limo slowed in front of Salt & Mercy, Desman’s crown jewel.
I’d been here before. A few times, actually.
The place wasn’t just a restaurant. It was a spectacle.
Every inch had been designed to make you feel rich, even if you weren’t.
Velvet booths. Gold cutlery. It was an experience but it catered to wealthy people. It was opulent in an obvious way.
My restaurant was opulent in a low-key way. People that came into my place knew they were paying top dollar but it was meant to be more understated. Not all the flashy gold and shiny shit.
People had changed. They liked mystery. They wanted to feel rich without looking like it.
I didn’t get it, but I didn’t have to. I tapped into the market and I was going to milk it until things changed again.
Desman used to be a beast behind the stove, but lately he’d traded foie gras for philanthropy. I wasn’t judging—not exactly. It just felt like he had hung up his knife a little too willingly. Fame softened some people. For me, it only sharpened the edge.
And if Desman wanted to go off and feed the hungry, whatever. And if I earned a little good PR because I helped out, even better. I had to do this shit to make people forget who I was. More like who my family was.
The moment the limo door cracked open, camera flashes ignited like lightning. Paparazzi. Local press. Probably a couple influencers all hoping to get that candid shot.
Simone was out first, poised and perfect. Conroy followed, muttering curses under his breath. I stepped out last, already shielding my face with one hand.
I hated this part.
Click-click. “Rhett! Over here!”
“Chef Voss, smile for the camera!”
“Who’s the woman with you?”
The media was always trying to pair me with a woman. Never mind the fact they had seen Simone a hundred times. They knew she was my assistant but that didn’t stop them from trying to see something that wasn’t there.
We moved through the chaos, up the steps, through the double doors. And just like that, the noise changed.
I stepped into the restaurant. It was nothing like my restaurant. The place was electric, bold, and ultra luxe with velvet furniture, crystal-dripping chandeliers, a glossy black marble dance floor, and a sprawling bar made of black glass and accentuated with jade accents.
It was so ostentatious.
It had been a while since I had been in the place, but I would not be surprised to find they had upgraded to gold toilets in the bathroom. It was a lot to take in. It all felt so bright. Maybe I was becoming a bit of a caveman but I preferred my darkness.
Every head in the room turned when we entered.
I could feel the eyes on me. They were sizing me up. Dissecting my appearance. And of course, there were plenty of women that were looking at me with more than just a general interest.
I was used to it. I didn’t hate that women found me attractive, but it did get to be a little obnoxious. They all wanted a chance to ride me. It did make me feel a bit like a carnival attraction. Women were more than willing to step right up and purchase tickets.
“Look. It’s him.”
“That’s Voss.”
“Who’s that woman with him?”
“Holy shit, it’s really him.”
I ignored them. Not because I didn’t hear. Because I always heard. I just didn’t let it matter.
Desman appeared, parting the crowd like the celebrity he was. He had a wide grin and his hand was already extended.
“Rhett,” he boomed, grabbing my hand and pulling me in for a firm shake and a clap on the back that nearly dislocated a shoulder. “So glad you could make it!”
“Of course.” I tried to smile and make it look natural, but I had a feeling it looked more like a crocodile smile. All teeth and no joy.
Desman looked to Conroy, nodded once, and then smiled for Simone. “Come on, they want pictures.”
He walked me to a group of what was apparently the media. Simone was beside me.
“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered under her breath.
“What?”
“You’re looking at them like they’re on the menu.”
That was the crocodile smile. Simone was the first one to make that comparison. She said it was my trademark and that was not a good thing.
“One picture,” I said.
She laughed because we both knew there was no way there would only be one picture.
Desman stepped forward. “I think you know Rhett Voss.”
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.
“You’re not bored already?” I replied. “I’m impressed.”
Simone was checking something on her phone. Probably making sure our team’s social media pages were posting the right quotes, the right shots, the right vibe.
I tipped my drink back and let the burn anchor me. This wasn’t my scene. It never had been. I belonged in kitchens, not stages. Give me a pan over a podium any day.
But as much as I hated the show, the attention, the ass-kissing, I knew what this tour could do. It was all about feeding hungry kids. And it went a long way toward earning me some goodwill.
Conroy elbowed me. “Don’t look now, but I think the influencers spotted you.”
“Fantastic.”
“Stop it,” Simone snapped.
“You know what I could be doing right now?” I said. “Roasting duck. Grilling lamb ribs. Perfecting a plate. That’s how I contribute. Not… this.” I waved vaguely toward the room. “This is noise.”
“The noise is part of the job,” Simone said. “If you don’t like it, go flip burgers in a late night diner.”
I sighed and took another drink. “Don’t tempt me. That diner would have a Michelin star in a year.”
She laughed. “And then the noise would start all over again. There’s no escape.”
I looked around the room, maybe for a way out, when I spotted someone I didn’t know.
But I wanted to.
“Who is that?” I asked my friends.