Chapter 28
CLEMENTINE
Iwore black that night. Head to toe just like he demanded. Black chef’s coat, black pants, and black shoes. No pops of color, no personality, no trace of the vibrant person I had been just two weeks ago. I looked like I was in mourning, which wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
Rhett had sucked the life out of me.
The Hollywood venue was everything LA promised to be.
It was stunning and of course full of beautiful people.
I thought I recognized a few faces, but it was hard to say.
The kitchen buzzed with its usual pre-service energy.
I moved through it like a ghost, checking my station and avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially Rhett.
I did exactly what was asked of me. No more, no less. When orders came in, I plated them to specification. When Rhett called for adjustments, I made them without comment. When other students struggled with timing, I focused on my own station instead of jumping in to help like I normally would.
It was the most uninspiring night I had ever spent in a professional kitchen.
“Behind hot,” I called out as I carried plates to the pass, my voice flat and professional. Conroy glanced at me with concern. He was still one-armed, but he was doing what he could. He tried to joke with me, but I had no energy for friendly banter.
The evening dragged on with suffocating predictability. I watched Rhett work the line with his usual intensity, barking orders and tasting sauces, but I felt disconnected from it all. Like I was watching a movie of someone else’s life instead of living my own.
This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? A compliant student who followed instructions and didn’t cause waves. Someone who understood her place in the hierarchy and didn’t expect recognition or respect beyond what was minimally required.
Fine.
He could have exactly that.
By the time we finished breaking down our stations, I was exhausted. Not physically. It was more of an emotional numbness. Who knew being dead inside was more draining than passion?
I opened the door of the staff exit and stepped outside, already mentally planning my escape route back to the hotel, when I heard my name.
“Clementine.”
I paused, not turning around, and waited for whatever criticism or instruction was coming.
“You did great tonight,” Rhett said, his voice getting closer. “I was watching, and your execution was flawless. Every plate perfect, every timing spot on.”
I turned slowly, sure I misheard him. He was standing maybe three feet away, looking at me with something that might have been approval.
“Excuse me?” I snapped. If he was messing with me, I was so not in the mood.
“Your work tonight,” he repeated, seeming genuinely puzzled by my prickly reaction. “It was exactly what I look for in a line cook. Consistent, reliable, professional.”
I stared at him. Something hot and angry unfurled in my chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Not currently. Why?”
“Tonight? Tonight is when you decide to compliment my work?” I stepped closer, my carefully maintained composure cracking. “The night I felt like a robot going through the motions, the night I deliberately killed every spark of creativity and passion I had—that’s when you think I did great?”
“Clem, I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“For weeks I’ve been pouring my heart into every dish, trying to bring something special to each plate, showing you who I really am as a chef.
And you treated me like an annoyance at best, a liability at worst. But tonight, when I shut down completely and pretended to be someone I’m not, suddenly I’m doing great work? ”
He went quiet, and I could see him processing my words, maybe finally understanding what I was telling him.
“I’ve never felt so uninspired in a kitchen as I did tonight,” I continued, my voice getting louder despite my efforts to keep it controlled.
The dam had broken. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“I hated every second of it. But I’m glad you’re happy, Chef.
Thrilled that I finally figured out how to be the kind of mindless drone you want. ”
I turned to leave, but his hand caught my arm gently.
“Wait,” he said. “That’s not… that’s not what I want.”
“Isn’t it?” I pulled free of his grip and faced him again.
“Because that’s sure as hell what it feels like.
Every time I show personality or creativity, you shut me down.
Every time I try to bring something of myself to the work, you make me feel like I’m overstepping.
So tonight I gave you exactly what you seemed to want—a silent, obedient robot who follows orders. ”
“If all this,” he gestured at my black outfit, “is just for me, then I don’t want it.”
“Then make up your damn mind!” The words exploded out of me, weeks of frustration and hurt finally finding their voice. “Because I can’t keep doing this dance with you, Rhett. I can’t keep trying to figure out what version of myself you want me to be on any given day.”
We were standing too close again, building up the same charged atmosphere that had gotten us into trouble before.
“I’ve had enough heat for one night,” he said quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion. “The last thing I want to do is fight with you.”
The unexpected gentleness in his tone caught me off guard. All my angry words seemed to evaporate, leaving behind a different kind of tension that made my heart race.
“What do you want to do then?” I asked.
For a moment, he just looked at me. Really looked, like he was memorizing every detail of my face. Then he stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek.
“This,” he said simply, and kissed me.
It wasn’t like Miami.
Both of us were stone-cold sober.
His lips were warm and demanding, and when I didn’t pull away immediately, he deepened the kiss with a hunger that made my knees weak.
I should have stopped it. Should have pushed him away and maintained the boundaries I had only recently put in place. But God, he tasted so good and felt even better.
He backed me against the wall of the alley behind the venue. The brick was cool against my back with his body pressed against mine. His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw, finding that sensitive spot just below my ear that made me gasp.
“Clem,” he murmured against my neck. The way he said my name made something flutter deep in my stomach.
This was insane. Two hours ago I hated him with every fiber of my being. Now I was melting against him like butter on hot toast, letting him kiss me senseless in an alley where anyone could see us. Hopefully.
And I didn’t want to stop.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat that was pure want.
I reached up and grabbed the back of his head, pulling his face closer to mine.
All the fight and frustration of the past few weeks transformed into something different but equally consuming.
His hard body pressed against mine. And God help me, I was arching off the wall and rubbing against him.
We kissed until I was dizzy.
“Stop,” I whispered against his mouth, even though stopping was the last thing I wanted to do. “Rhett, stop.”
He pulled back immediately, his hands still gentle on my face, searching my expression for signs that he had pushed too far. Both of us were breathing hard.
“This is a lot,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “I’m mad at you. Or I was. I’m not sure I can just flip a switch and go back to… whatever this is.”
I expected him to argue, to try to convince me that we could just pretend nothing had happened. Instead, he nodded slowly.
“I understand,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s not that you shouldn’t have,” I interrupted, because that wasn’t entirely true. “It’s just… I need to process this. All of it.”
He stepped back, giving me space to breathe and think, but his eyes never left my face. “Okay. Hold up a second. I’ll walk you back to the hotel. You shouldn’t walk alone.”
When we reached my door there was an awkward moment. It almost felt like the end of a date. Should I invite him in or not? I knew what I wanted but thank heavens my brain still seemed to be functioning. Logic was telling me not to do it. To not fall for it again.
“For what it’s worth,” he said as I fumbled with my key card, “I’m starting to dread this thing ending.”
I paused, looking up at him. “Why?”
“Because I like having you in my kitchen. The real you, I mean. Neon colors and all.”
The confession punched through the armor I’d built around my heart. After everything that had happened, all the harsh words and professional distance, he was telling me he wanted exactly what I had been trying to give him from the beginning.
“Goodnight, Clem,” he said softly.
I watched him walk down the hallway toward his own room. I could feel my self-control slipping. He was gorgeous. Available. And he wanted me.
But I couldn’t do it.
I let myself into my room and immediately slumped against the closed door with my heart still racing from the kiss. The complete emotional whiplash of the entire evening left me so twisted up.
I changed into pajamas and went through my nighttime routine while my mind spun in circles. Every rational thought told me to stay away from Rhett. He was my boss, he was emotionally volatile, and he had already hurt me once in ways that had left deep scars.
But then I considered the fact I mattered to him in ways that went beyond professional convenience.
I curled up in the hotel room’s oversized chair and stared out at the glittering LA skyline, trying to sort through the mess of emotions churning in my chest. The pit in my stomach was equal parts arousal and nerves. That kiss. Damn. The man could kiss.
Would I be making the biggest mistake of my life if I let him back in?
The logical part of my brain laid out all the reasons why this was a terrible idea.
When the tour ended, he would go back to his restaurant and his celebrity chef lifestyle.
Where exactly would I fit into that picture?
I was twenty-four years old, barely out of culinary school, the daughter of a man who could make or break careers with a single phone call.
The media would have a field day if they caught wind of anything between us. They’d tear him apart for “robbing the cradle” and accuse him of taking advantage of his position. They would accuse me of sleeping my way to the top instead of earning my place.
And even if he said he wanted me in his life—really wanted me, not just for convenient hotel room hookups—what was stopping him from changing his mind three days from now?
The guy was a pendulum, swinging from hot to cold without warning.
I had already experienced his capacity for cruelty when he felt cornered or threatened.
Could I trust him not to hurt me again? Could I trust myself not to lose my identity trying to become whatever version of me he wanted on any given day?
Every single rational thought, every logical argument, every piece of self-preservation instinct I possessed told me to stay away.
My heart had other ideas.