Chapter 11
RHETT
Iwatched her cab disappear into the Manhattan traffic. My hands were shoved deep in my pockets, the cool fall air cutting through my thin shirt, but I didn’t move from the sidewalk.
I should have asked her to stay on the team. The words had been right there on my tongue, but something held me back. It felt dangerous. I wasn’t worried about her calling me out in the kitchen again. Not really.
It was because I knew exactly what would happen if I kept her close for an entire month.
The heat was rising between us and one of us would get burned.
By the time I made it back to my penthouse, I was exhausted. The adrenaline crash from the evening’s chaos had left me hollow and restless. I poured myself a double scotch and stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows. I was a creature of habit. It was part of my routine.
The tour was fucked without Conroy. I had backup chefs I could call, sure, but none of them knew my systems the way he did.
None of them could read my moods and anticipate my needs before I voiced them.
It would take weeks to train someone new to that level, and I only had a few days before our next event.
I drained the scotch and headed for my bedroom, stripping off my clothes and letting them fall where they dropped. The black satin sheets were cool against my overheated skin as I collapsed face-first into the pillows.
Sleep came faster than I expected.
I was back in the kitchen at La Tavola, but it was different somehow.
Quieter. Empty except for the two of us.
Clem stood at the appetizer station, her back to me, that ridiculous pink dress replaced by nothing but a black apron tied around her waist. Her perfect round ass was on full display.
The bow from the apron strings was begging to be untied.
“Hot behind,” I murmured, moving closer until I could feel the heat radiating from her skin.
She glanced over her shoulder at me. Those green eyes were dark with want. “What do you need, Chef?”
The word sent fire straight to my cock. I pressed against her back, my hands tugging at the ties of her apron. “You know what I need.”
The apron fell away, pooling at her feet. She was perfect, all soft curves and smooth skin that begged to be touched. I ran my hands down her sides, feeling her shiver under my palms.
“Tell me what you want,” I growled against her ear.
“You,” she breathed. “I want you.”
I spun her around, lifting her onto the steel prep counter. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. I could feel her wetness through the fabric of my pants, hot and ready.
“Please,” she whispered, her fingers working at my belt. “I need you inside me.”
I slipped my hand between her thighs and found her wet and wanting. She was definitely ready.
I pressed two fingers inside her. Her walls clenched around me as she gasped. Her head fell back against the stainless-steel backsplash, eyes fluttering closed as I worked her slowly.
“Look at me,” I commanded, my voice rough. “I want to see your face when you come for me.”
Those green eyes snapped open, locking onto mine. I could see everything I was feeling. Desire. White-hot passion. It was intoxicating. I added a third finger, stretching her, preparing her. She was so fucking wet I could hear the obscene sounds as I worked her higher.
“Rhett,” she whimpered, her hips rolling against my hand. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” I growled, curling my fingers to hit that spot that made her cry out. “But you’re going to take what I give you first.”
I could feel her getting close. Her breathing became ragged and her thighs trembled around my waist. I wanted to watch her fall apart completely before I buried myself inside her. I wanted to see that controlled composure shatter.
“Come for me,” I ordered, my thumb finding her clit and circling it with just the right pressure. “Let me feel you.”
I jerked awake, disoriented and achingly hard. My sheets were soaked with sweat, my cock throbbing. The remnants of the dream clung to me.
I sat up in my penthouse bedroom, running a hand through my hair and trying to shake off the lingering arousal that had followed me into wakefulness.
I flopped back down on the pillow and tried to slip into the same erotic dream.
If I couldn’t have the real thing, I wanted to dream it.
I wanted to imagine what it was like to have her come in my arms. I really wanted to feel her tight sheath squeezing around me.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I threw back the covers and stalked to the bathroom, hoping a cold shower would wash away whatever temporary insanity had taken hold of my subconscious. But even under the icy spray, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
She was young. Naive. She had years of training and experience ahead of her before she would be anywhere close to my skill level, professionally or otherwise. So why was I so caught up with this girl? Why couldn’t I get her out of my head?
Her father would kill me if he suspected I wanted to fuck his daughter. And the last thing I wanted was a complication with a woman. Definitely not a young woman. They tended to be clingy. They had stars in their eyes and wanted big things—like commitment.
I could not and would not be offering that up.
The damn dream woke me up thirty minutes before my alarm. After a quick shower and packing my suitcase, I was on my way down to the lobby. The car was waiting for me with the driver leaning against the passenger door.
I was still wrestling with the thoughts and feelings that damn dream stirred up as I sat in the back of the town car on the way to the airport.
We swung by and picked up Simone, who was beside me scrolling through her tablet.
Then it was off to pick up Conroy. He sat in the front passenger seat.
His right arm was in a sling, but he insisted on joining us for the tour despite his injury.
“I would lose my damn mind sitting at home while you two travel the country,” he said.
I understood the sentiment completely. I was not the type to sit around anywhere.
The car moved smoothly through morning traffic while I stared out the window. My brain bounced between thoughts of the dream to the other night in my mother’s restaurant.
The electricity I felt every time Clem and I brushed past each other almost felt like it branded me. I could still feel every place her skin touched mine. And I didn’t miss the looks from my mother. She was definitely getting some ideas in her head. My mother was all about seeing me settled down.
Wasn’t every mother like that?
“Earth to Rhett,” Simone said, not looking up from her screen.
I blinked, clearing my mind. “What?”
“You’re brooding again.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You absolutely brood. It’s one of your most distinctive features.”
Conroy chuckled from the front seat. “She’s got you there, boss.”
We made it through security fairly quickly. Within thirty minutes, we were settled in the first-class lounge with coffee and pastries, reviewing the logistics for the next leg of the tour.
“Alright,” Simone said, pulling up her schedule on the tablet. “Let’s talk about what we’re walking into. La Tavola was just the beginning. We’ve got five more cities lined up over the next three weeks.”
She turned the screen so Conroy and I could both see the detailed itinerary she had constructed.
“Miami is next, then Austin, Seattle, and into Las Vegas. Then we’ll hit Los Angeles and Chicago.
Each event is bigger than the last, with local partnerships and media coverage ramping up as we build momentum toward the finale. ”
“And the finale is?” Conroy asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Thanksgiving Day in New York City,” I said. “The grand opening of Desman’s soup kitchen, where we’ll serve a free dinner to anyone who needs it. No tickets, no reservations, just show up and eat.”
Simone nodded. Her fingers danced across the screen as she pulled up architectural drawings and capacity projections.
“The space is designed to handle up to fifteen hundred people a day once it’s fully operational.
For Thanksgiving, we’re planning to serve from noon until ten, with multiple seatings and a takeout option for families who can’t stay. ”
“That’s ambitious,” Conroy said, whistling softly.
“That’s the point,” I replied. “Anyone who’s alone on the holiday, anyone who can’t afford a traditional dinner, anyone who just needs a place to belong for a few hours will have somewhere to go.”
The logistics were staggering when I really thought about them.
Coordinating with local suppliers in each city, managing dietary restrictions and cultural preferences, ensuring consistent quality across different kitchens with different equipment.
Not to mention the media circus that would inevitably follow us from coast to coast.
“Any social media issues I need to be aware of?” I asked.
Simone switched to another screen. “I’m glad you brought that up. Let’s talk about public perception.”
I groaned, expecting the worse. I hated social media. Everyone was a fucking paparazzo. And they all loved to catch me doing shit. And my dumbass always managed to get caught doing something stupid.
“So far, the response has been overwhelmingly positive,” Simone said. “No online fires to put out, no negative press coverage, and the reviews from La Tavola are absolutely glowing.”
“Thank God,” I muttered.
I was worried the incident with the server would make it to the news. There were plenty of witnesses.
She showed us a sampling of social media posts and news articles, all praising the evening’s success and highlighting the emotional impact on guests who attended. There were photos of families sharing meals. A few of the attendees even provided interviews. Everyone had great things to say.
“Your involvement is being seen as genuine rather than performative,” Simone continued, nodding as she read.
“That’s exactly what we hoped for. People are responding to the authenticity of the experience rather than focusing on celebrity chef dramatics.
And they are really glad you weren’t being an attention whore. ”
“Good,” I said. “I’m not an attention whore. The opposite. It’s not my fault I live an interesting life.”
I knew this positive coverage was fragile. One wrong move, one unflattering photo or poorly chosen quote, and the entire narrative could shift. The media loved building people up almost as much as they enjoyed tearing them down.
I was about to ask about Miami’s venue logistics when I caught movement in my peripheral vision. It was like a sixth sense. I felt her presence. My head turned almost involuntarily, tracking the familiar figure walking across the lounge entrance.
Clementine.
She was dressed for travel in dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that made her look younger and softer than she had in the restaurant kitchen. She pulled a small, wheeled suitcase behind her while scanning the lounge like she was looking for someone.
Looking for us.
The way my body responded to her presence should have been embarrassing. One day since I had seen her and my reaction was immediate and undeniable.
That was a terrible sign. How the hell was I going to stay away from her if she was going to be working alongside me every night?
“Uh-oh,” Simone said.
I dragged my attention back to her. “What?”
She was grinning like she had just won the lottery. “Nothing. Just oof.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Oh, it’s definitely an answer.” Her grin widened. “Rhett and Clementine, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
The childish song made my jaw clench with irritation, partly because she was right and partly because she was enjoying my discomfort far too much.
“You’re fired,” I said flatly.
“No, I’m not.”
“Effective immediately.”
“You can’t fire me. I’m indispensable, and we both know it.”
“Fine, but cut that shit out. We need to keep this tour professional.”