Chapter 16
CLEMENTINE
Bring on the awkward. I could practically feel him retreating into himself. He was putting up those walls I watched come down throughout the evening. The kiss completely obliterated any semblance of that wall.
“So, uh, I guess you can take Conroy’s room,” he said.
His enthusiasm was so flattering.
“Sorry,” I said.
I didn’t know why I was sorry. I wasn’t the one naked in the hotel room. I might have been just a little jealous.
“It’s fine. The place is big enough.”
We stepped across the hall. He unlocked his door and stepped aside to let me in. The brooding chef I first met was firmly back in place.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, but his tone suggested anything but comfort. There was an edge to his voice, a tension in the set of his shoulders that hadn’t been there when we were laughing in the hallway.
I stepped into his suite and immediately understood why he seemed irritated. This wasn’t just a hotel room. The place was clearly his private sanctuary.
“Holy shit,” I said. “Someone is living large.”
“I paid for the room,” he said defensively.
The suite was gorgeous. There were two separate bedrooms, a living area, and what looked like a full kitchen visible through an archway.
He was making me feel very unwanted.
“You know, I’ll just go down to the front desk and see if they have another room,” I said.
“It’s fine,” he said curtly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Stay. I’m sorry about this whole situation. Conroy and Simone should have thought about the fact that other people might need access to that room.”
He was trying to be cool and polite. He used a tone that said this was an inconvenience he was tolerating out of necessity rather than desire.
It stung, especially after the way he kissed me earlier. He had been so normal. Talking about his mom and just being a normal man. I wanted that guy back.
“I could go down to the lobby and wait for them to, uh, finish,” I offered, though the thought of sitting in those chairs until God knew when didn’t appeal to me in the slightest. “Or ask for another room.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s after one in the morning.” His dismissal was swift but not unkind. “You can take Conroy’s bed. He hasn’t slept in it yet.”
My gaze drifted to the kitchen. I found myself gravitating toward it almost automatically.
Kitchens had always been my refuge when I felt unsettled.
It was the one place where I could center myself and find my confidence again.
Kitchens were a constant. And the kitchen in the suite was gorgeous.
And fairly large. There were high-end appliances with the kind of setup any serious cook would kill for.
Maybe it was designed for the many chefs that visited Miami. It was definitely one of the culinary meccas of the world.
I opened the refrigerator, partly out of curiosity and partly because I needed something to do with my hands.
What I found inside made me smile despite my mood.
Even in a hotel suite, even on vacation, Rhett had managed to stock the fridge with beautiful ingredients.
Fresh herbs, artisanal cheeses, perfectly ripe produce. The man couldn’t help himself.
“Getting familiar with my food?” His voice came from behind me, carrying just a hint of amusement that gave me hope the brooding might be temporary.
“Just admiring your groceries. Even on tour, you can’t resist collecting ingredients.”
“Old habits.”
I turned to face him, struck by a sudden inspiration. “Want to have a cook-off?”
He blinked at me like I suggested we rob a bank. “It’s one in the morning.”
“So? We’re both clearly too wired to sleep, thanks to witnessing Conroy’s love life in high definition. Besides.” I gestured at the impressive array of ingredients. “You’ve got everything we need right here.”
“That’s not—” He stopped, shaking his head. “This is supposed to be my downtime.”
“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure? Scared I might show you up in your own kitchen?”
The challenge hung in the air between us. I watched him wrestle with it. Part of him was clearly tempted. I could see it in the way his eyes kept drifting to the ingredients I pulled out. His fingers twitched like they wanted to start prepping.
“No cheating,” I said and moved to block his view of the ingredients.
He rolled his eyes. “I ordered the groceries. I know what’s in there.”
“So you’re hesitating because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything,” he said.
“Then prove it. Unless you’re chicken.” I completed the taunt with clucking noises.
That did it. His competitive streak won out over his desire to maintain distance, just as I hoped it would. “Fine. Twenty minutes, whatever we can make with what’s in there. But don’t come crying to me when you lose.”
“Oh, you’re going to regret that confidence,” I shot back, already moving toward the stove. “What are we cooking for? Best dish wins what?”
“Bragging rights. And winner gets the hot tub first.”
I glanced through the windows at the private balcony, where I could see the soft glow of lights around what was indeed a very inviting hot tub. “Deal.”
What followed was twenty minutes of the most intense, playful competition I experienced in months.
I had participated in a few competitions but none of them had been this fun.
We moved around each other in the compact kitchen space like dancers, occasionally bumping hips or reaching across each other for ingredients.
He tried to steal the salt, and while he did that, I borrowed his fresh sage.
Rhett went for something classic and elegant—handmade ravioli with a brown butter sage sauce that filled the kitchen with an incredible aroma. Every technique was executed with the kind of muscle memory that came from years of professional cooking.
I decided to play to my strengths and went for something that would showcase creativity over technique—a deconstructed tiramisu with coffee-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone mousse, and a dark chocolate soil made from crushed amaretti.
It was risky, attempting a dessert in twenty minutes, but I knew the flavors would work.
“That’s not going to set in time,” Rhett commented as I piped mascarpone into small glasses.
“Watch me,” I replied confidently, sliding the glasses into the freezer. “Sometimes it’s not about following every rule perfectly.”
“And sometimes shortcuts just get you subpar results.”
“We’ll find out.”
The trash talk continued as we plated, both of us getting increasingly competitive and increasingly animated.
This was the Rhett I’d glimpsed on the dance floor, the one who laughed at Conroy’s disasters and shared stories about his mother.
The careful control was still there, but it was channeled into creativity rather than distance.
The timer on my phone went off.
“Hands off!” I called out. When he continued to plate, I smacked his ass with a kitchen towel.
He spun around and stared at me.
I couldn’t believe I had just done that. It was a knee-jerk reaction.
Instead of yelling at me, he practiced that muscle control and arched one bushy black eyebrow. Heat pooled low in my belly.
“Someone is a little competitive,” he said.
“Yes, someone is. Cheaters never win.”
“It wasn’t cheating.
“Pretty damn close.”
We both stepped back to survey our creations.
His ravioli looked like something that belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant garnished with crispy sage leaves and freshly grated parmesan.
Mine looked like controlled chaos. The layers of coffee and cream and chocolate somehow melded into something that resembled art more than traditional dessert.
Yeah, yeah, he had earned his Michelin stars.
I was suddenly hungry. His dish looked amazing.
“Ladies first,” he said, gesturing toward his plate.
I took a bite and had to suppress a moan of pleasure. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the filling a silky blend of ricotta and herbs that practically melted on my tongue. The brown butter sauce was nutty and rich without being heavy, and the sage added just the right aromatic note.
“Damn you,” I said after swallowing. “That’s really good.”
“Thank you.”
“Your turn,” I said, sliding my creation toward him.
He looked skeptical as he dipped his spoon into the layers, but his expression changed completely when he tasted it.
The coffee and mascarpone played off each other perfectly, the chocolate soil adding texture and depth, the whole thing somehow managing to be both familiar and completely unexpected.
It wasn’t the first time I made it. I knew it would work. Usually I would give myself more time, but I had pulled it off. I knew I did, judging by the look on his face.
“How did you—” He stopped, taking another bite. “The mascarpone isn’t grainy at all. How did you get it to set so quickly?”
“Trade secret,” I said smugly. “So what’s the verdict?”
We grabbed a bottle of champagne from his well-stocked bar and took our dishes out to the balcony. The Miami night was warm with just enough of a breeze to make it comfortable. The city sparkled below us, and the hot tub bubbled invitingly in the corner.
“I hate to admit it,” Rhett said after we’d both finished eating, “but I think you might have won this one.”
“Might have? That tiramisu was inspired and you know it.”
“It was creative, I’ll give you that. But my ravioli was technically superior.”
“Technically superior doesn’t mean better. Sometimes the best dishes are the ones that take risks.”
We debated back and forth, the champagne making us both more animated and silly. It was exactly what I had been hoping for when I suggested the cook-off. It was a way to break through his sudden return to brooding.
Success.
I kept finding my gaze drawn to the hot tub. After hours of dancing and then the intensity of cooking, every muscle in my body was crying out for relief. The thought of sinking into that hot, bubbling water was almost irresistible.
“You know,” Rhett said, following my gaze, “winner gets first dibs, remember? And since we can’t agree on who won…”
“Are you suggesting we share?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light even as my pulse quickened at the suggestion.
“I’m saying you’re welcome to get in if you want. I can see you eyeing it.”
The offer was loaded with possibility. It was another crossroads. Another choice. We could maintain safe professional boundaries or acknowledge that something was shifting between us.
I made my choice.
Standing up from my chair, I reached behind me for the zipper of my dress. “Well, since I clearly won our little competition.”
I let the dress slide down my body and pool at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my black lace bra and matching thong. It wasn’t anything more revealing than a bikini would have been, but the intimacy of the moment made it feel incredibly bold.
Rhett looked like he was about to swallow his tongue. Mission accomplished.
His eyes raked over my body. He didn’t hide his appreciation. And I stood there longer than necessary to make sure he looked his fill. I was playing with fire. I didn’t care. I was a chef. I was used to getting burned.
I stepped into the hot tub. The warm water immediately began to work its magic on my tired muscles. The bubbles rose around me as I settled onto one of the built-in seats. I couldn’t suppress a small sigh of pleasure at how good it felt.
When I looked back over my shoulder, Rhett was still sitting in his chair, champagne glass frozen halfway to his lips, staring at me like I had just performed actual magic.
“Are you only brave in the kitchen?” I asked, letting challenge creep back into my voice.