Chapter 19
RHETT
What the hell was going on with Clementine?
The question had been eating at me all evening as I watched her work at the garnish station.
She was acting like a total stranger. There was an icy professionalism that was completely unlike her usual warmth.
Every interaction between us had been clipped, formal, reduced to the absolute minimum necessary to keep service running smoothly.
I’m not your employee, Mr. Voss.
The way she’d said it—like my name tasted bitter in her mouth—had been bothering me for hours. And that fucking lime green dress. In a kitchen where I’d specifically requested everyone wear black for uniformity and professionalism, she’d shown up looking like a tropical vacation advertisement.
It was deliberate. Everything about her behavior tonight was on purpose. She had been avoiding eye contact with me for the entire service. She called out “heard” when necessary but never anything more. No comments when servers passed on compliments from diners. She was a robot.
The question was why.
I mean, I had my suspicions. After last night’s hot tub incident, she was probably feeling rejected. Maybe embarrassed. But what did she expect? That I would plow my friend’s daughter in a hot tub in Miami? It couldn’t happen. And not when she was working for me.
The Feed America was a fun little adventure for her, but this wasn’t a game to me.
This was a professional endeavor with serious implications for everyone involved.
I had a job to do and a reputation to maintain.
One misstep on this tour, one scandal or controversy, and it could tank the entire program.
They would never give us another shot next year, and my restaurant would suffer the consequences. I had a lot of people on my payroll depending on me to keep things successful.
So sue me if I was a little tough on people sometimes. Sue me if I yelled when standards weren’t being met. It wasn’t personal. It was about maintaining the level of excellence that kept everyone earning good wages and kept the doors open.
But watching Clementine work with that rigid posture and carefully neutral expression, I was starting to think maybe it had gotten personal. Maybe my approach this morning hadn’t been entirely professional either.
She was pissed.
Last night I had convinced myself she was glad we didn’t finish what we started in the hot tub. The memory of how I had spoken to her in front of the kitchen staff made something uncomfortable twist in my stomach. I could have probably done that a little differently.
Sit down, be quiet, and let the adults handle this.
It was harsher than necessary. In my defense, I had been stressed about working with all new people. Yes, I was missing her if I was being honest. She took Conroy’s spot. Not having either of them was difficult. I couldn’t remember any of the names of the staff at the restaurant.
I didn’t get stressed very often. It was a combination of Conroy, fucking around with her, and the idea of disappointing Desman.
Still, the look on her face when I’d dismissed her? That hadn’t been the reaction of someone who was just receiving professional feedback.
That had been hurt.
Real hurt.
She was ignoring me and maybe that was for the best. Maybe this little cold shoulder treatment would make it easier to maintain the boundaries I should have established from the beginning.
Except it wasn’t easier. It was fucking miserable.
Every time I had to coordinate with her station, the tension was obvious. The other kitchen staff had noticed too. I could see them exchanging glances when they thought I wasn’t looking, picking up on the uncomfortable dynamic between us.
They were already coming up with their own stories. They were definitely assuming we were fucking. If I hadn’t gotten out of that hot tub, their assumptions would have been right.
Service was running smoothly despite the personal drama.
The local cooks had settled into their rhythm after the rocky morning.
The dishes were going out at exactly the pace and quality I demanded.
The dining room was full of happy guests who seemed thrilled with both the food and the overall experience.
That should have been enough to satisfy me.
A successful service, positive feedback, another solid addition to the tour’s growing reputation.
But instead, I found myself hyperaware of every interaction with Clementine, every moment when she handed off a perfectly garnished plate without so much as meeting my eyes.
And then shit went sideways.
“Chef!” One of the servers appeared at my elbow, his face flushed with obvious agitation. “We have a problem at table twelve.”
I glanced at the pass where three plates of the fish course were waiting for garnish, then back at the server. “What kind of problem?”
“The gentleman is unhappy with his meal. Very unhappy. He’s demanding to speak with the chef.”
My jaw clenched automatically. In fifteen years of professional cooking, I learned that complaints during service fell into two categories: legitimate issues that needed immediate correction, and entitled customers who thought making a scene would get them special treatment.
And considering what the service tonight was all about, a complaint was pretty fucking ballsy.
“What’s his specific complaint?”
“He says the fish is overcooked and the sauce is too salty.” The server hesitated.
“And what?”
“And he says if this is the quality we’re serving for charity, maybe the people we’re trying to help would be better off going hungry.”
That did it. Whatever charitable restraint I might have shown evaporated instantly. Nobody insulted my food and then had the audacity to make jokes about hungry people when we were literally feeding them.
“Where is he?” I asked, already untying my apron.
“Chef, maybe I should—” the server started, but I was already moving toward the dining room.
Table twelve was easy to spot. The man in question was holding court in the middle of the restaurant.
His voice carried over the conversations of other diners as he gestured dramatically at his barely touched plate.
His wife looked mortified, and the couple sharing their table appeared to be trying to disappear into their chairs.
“Is there a problem with your meal?” I asked as I approached, keeping my voice level despite the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
The man looked up at me with obvious disdain. “Are you the chef responsible for this disaster?”
“I am. And I’d like to understand what specifically—”
“Specifically, this fish is rubber and the sauce tastes like seawater. I’ve had better food at a gas station.” He pushed the plate away from him like it was contaminated. “Honestly, if this is what passes for fine dining these days, I’m not surprised the restaurant industry is struggling.”
I was pissed for a number of reasons.
One, the food was free.
Two, the food was damn good.
Three, the dude was obviously not in need of shit. He was taking food out of the mouths of people that needed it.
The dining room had gone noticeably quieter, other guests turning to watch the confrontation. I could feel dozens of eyes on me. I could practically see tomorrow’s social media posts and online reviews forming in real time.
This was exactly the kind of situation that could torpedo everything I was trying to avoid.
“Sir, I’d be happy to prepare you a replacement—”
“I don’t want a replacement.”
“If you’re not satisfied with—”
“This whole charity thing is obviously just a publicity stunt anyway. Probably a tax write-off for whatever corporation is funding it.”
My professional composure started to crack. He wasn’t just insulting my food anymore—he was attacking the entire mission of the tour, dismissing the real impact we were having on communities across the country.
“Actually, this ‘publicity stunt’ has served over fifteen thousand meals to people in need this year alone. So maybe—”
“Excuse me.” A voice interrupted what was about to become a very public meltdown. “I couldn’t help but notice there might be an issue with your meal?”
I turned to find Clementine approaching the table, and despite everything that had been brewing between us all evening, I felt a wave of relief at her presence. She was smiling—not the brittle professional smile she’d been giving me, but that disarming one that made people melt.
“There certainly is,” the man said, apparently delighted to have a new audience for his performance. “Your chef here has served me completely inedible food and now he’s lecturing me about charity work.”
“Oh my,” Clementine said, her voice full of sympathetic concern. “That must be so disappointing for you. What a terrible way to spend your evening.”
The man preened under her attention, clearly pleased that someone was finally taking his side. “Exactly!”
“You know what? You deserve to have the meal you were promised. Can you tell me a little about what went wrong with the fish?”
I watched, mesmerized despite my irritation, as she completely defused the situation through simple human connection. She listened to his complaints with genuine attention and somehow managed to make him feel heard without agreeing that the food was actually bad.
After the man rambled and it became clear the meal was the least of his problems, Clem smiled. “You know what? Let me prepare something special for you. Would that work?”
The transformation was remarkable. The man who’d been red-faced and belligerent five minutes earlier was now nodding eagerly.
“That would be wonderful,” he said. “You know, you should be running this operation. Much better customer service than some people.”
He shot me a pointed look, but I ignored it. I was too busy watching Clementine work her magic, turning what had been a potential disaster into an opportunity to make the customer feel special and valued.
“I’ll have something perfect for you in just a few minutes,” she promised.
As we walked back toward the kitchen, I found myself staring at her profile. The transition from this graceful problem-solver back to the woman who’d been giving me the cold shoulder all evening was remarkable.
“How did you do that?” I asked quietly.
She glanced at me, the first time she’d made eye contact all night. “Do what?”
“Turn him from a screaming asshole into your biggest fan.”
“I listened to him,” she said simply. “People usually just want to feel heard and valued. Even screaming assholes.”
And then the wall went back up. It was frustrating as hell. I was more attracted to her now than I’d been last night in that hot tub.