Chapter 29
RHETT
Chicago in mid-November was exactly as I remembered it.
Relentlessly cold, perpetually gray, with wind that could cut through bone.
Rain lashed against the windows of our hotel as we prepared for the second-to-last event of the tour.
I could already hear the complaints from guests who would have to brave the weather in their evening wear.
The venue was a stroke of genius, though.
St. Michael’s Cathedral sat like a Gothic fortress against the Chicago skyline.
The stone walls and stained-glass windows promised sanctuary from the November storm.
Inside, the soaring ceilings and ornate architecture created an atmosphere that was both intimate and grand.
It was exactly the kind of backdrop that would make this dinner memorable long after the last course was served.
I arrived early to oversee the kitchen setup. My breath was visible in small puffs as I walked from the taxi to the cathedral’s side entrance. The wind cut through my coat. I found myself actually grateful for the warmth of the industrial kitchen.
The space buzzed with familiar energy as the team arrived. Equipment was being tested and ingredients were being inventoried. It was the careful choreography of prep work. Prep could make or break a service.
Clementine walked into the kitchen like a burst of sunshine. She was wearing a bright yellow sweater and black slacks. Her earrings caught the light as she moved—tiny turkeys that dangled and swayed with each step. It was so completely absurd that I found myself smiling before I could stop myself.
“Good afternoon, Chef,” she said as she passed me. There was actual warmth in her voice. Not flirtatious exactly, but a lot better than the cold shoulder I had been getting.
She moved through her prep with renewed energy, joking with a couple of the chefs about the weather. The playful confidence was back. I realized how much I missed her vibrant energy. Everyone else was in the black uniform I required. She stood out like the prettiest sore thumb.
When she caught me watching her, she flashed me a smile that did things to my body I couldn’t explain. My heart kicked. My cock jumped. It was the kind of smile that suggested forgiveness. And maybe a promise.
The choir began their rehearsal in the main sanctuary, their voices echoing through the stone corridors and adding an ethereal quality to our prep work. Outside, the wind howled like something alive and angry, but inside we were all warm and safe.
Conroy appeared in the kitchen doorway, grinning like he had just won the lottery.
“Guess who got a clean bill of health from the doctor?” he announced, rolling his shoulder in a wide circle to demonstrate his restored range of motion. “Physical therapy worked like a charm. I’m ready to jump back in, Chef.”
Conroy had been my right hand forever. I missed him running things with me. Having him back should have been cause for celebration.
But I found myself glancing automatically at Clementine.
The expression on her face made my heart sink.
The color drained from her cheeks as she registered what Conroy’s return meant.
She would be relegated back to student status.
I had put more responsibility on her during the last couple of services.
She could do a lot more than garnish plates.
I wasn’t an idiot. I knew I needed to take advantage of her talent.
And I had been. But Conroy was also a talented chef. I watched Clem look back to the station she had been prepping. There was no hiding her disappointment.
She recovered quickly, her professional mask sliding into place, but not before I saw the devastation flicker across her features. She forced a smile and pretended like it never happened.
“Conroy, can I have a word?” I said, nodding toward a quieter corner of the kitchen.
He followed me, still grinning, still completely unaware of the emotional minefield he just wandered into.
“Listen,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “I’m thrilled that you’re feeling better. Honestly, it’s a huge relief. But Clementine has really proven herself. She’s earned her spot at that station, and I don’t feel right taking it away from her in the final hour.”
Conroy’s smile faded as he processed what I was telling him. “You want me to step aside?”
“Just for tonight,” I said quickly. “Let her finish strong. She’s been busting her ass, and she deserves to see this through.”
For a moment, I thought he might argue. Conroy had every right to reclaim his position. It was his job. And I knew he was anxious to get back into the swing of things.
But after a long pause, he nodded slowly.
“You’re right,” he said. “She has been killing it. And honestly, after being on the bench for so long, I’m probably a little rusty anyway. Tonight isn’t the night to see if my knife skills are what they were before the injury.”
The relief I felt was immediate and overwhelming. “Thank you. I know this isn’t easy.”
“What can I do instead?” he asked. “I don’t want to just stand around looking pretty. Can I have a beer?”
I thought for a moment, remembering the long line of guests who cooked in the Miami heat while waiting to enter our first pop-up.
“Remember how well it went over when Clementine handed out drinks to the people waiting in line? Maybe you could do something similar—pass out hot toddies or mulled wine? People are going to be freezing their asses off out there.”
His face brightened. “I like it. Give them a taste of hospitality before they even get inside. I’ll coordinate with the front-of-house team.”
He rushed away.
“Thank you,” Clementine said quietly.
I turned to find her standing close. She looked almost sad.
“You don’t need to thank me,” I said. “You earned it.”
“You could have let him take his spot back. It would have been easier, more traditional. No one would have questioned it.”
“Maybe. But it wouldn’t have been right. You’ve been doing very well, Clem. I’m not taking it from you.”
She looked at me like she was trying to decide if I was being honest. I could see her processing not just what I had done but what it meant.
I hoped she understood I valued her contributions enough to potentially complicate my relationship with Conroy.
I proved I was willing to break from tradition to ensure she got the recognition she deserved.
“Still,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
We stood there for a beat too long, the air between us charged with all the things we weren’t saying.
I found myself leaning slightly toward her.
She was wearing a clear lip gloss that made her lips look plump and juicy and so ripe for kissing.
I wanted to run my tongue over those perfect lips.
Her perfect little body fit so well against mine. I needed—
“Chef?” A student’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. “Can you check this soup? Tell me if I used salt instead of sugar.”
I blinked and stepped back, suddenly aware that half the kitchen staff was watching us with varying degrees of interest and amusement. Clementine’s cheeks flushed pink, but she maintained her composure as she moved back to her station.
“You better be able to tell the difference, son,” I said, my voice rough. “The rest of you, keep it up. Service starts in two hours.”
The kid’s soup was good, although I had serious questions about his taste buds.
The rest of the prep passed in a blur of controlled chaos.
The storm outside intensified, rattling the old windows and making the lights flicker occasionally, but everything ran well.
The choir’s voices provided an otherworldly soundtrack to our work.
“Chef Voss?” Father McKenna, the cathedral’s priest, appeared at my elbow as I expedited the first course. “The parish council wanted me to extend an invitation. When service is complete, we would love for you and your team to join us in the main sanctuary for dinner. As our guests, not our staff.”
I blinked in surprise. In all my years of professional cooking, I had never sat down to eat my own food alongside the people paying for it. The kitchen was my domain.
“That’s very generous,” I said carefully. “But we’ll still have breakdown and—”
“Already handled,” he interrupted with a smile. “Our volunteers will take care of cleanup. Consider it our gift to you for bringing such an amazing meal to us.”
An hour later, I found myself in the unfamiliar position of sitting at a candlelit table in the cathedral’s main sanctuary, still in my chef uniform but no longer working. The space was breathtaking.
Clementine sat beside me. She laughed at something one of the guests had said. She was magnetic in this setting, drawing people to her with an effortless charm that made everyone feel like they were in on some wonderful secret.
“The beef was extraordinary,” the woman across from us was saying. She was a food critic from the Chicago Tribune whose opinion could make or break restaurants. “But that sauce? I’ve never tasted anything like it. The depth of flavor was remarkable.”
“That’s all Clementine,” I found myself saying. “She developed the reduction, balanced the acidity. I just tried to stay out of her way.”
Clementine’s head turned toward me in surprise, but I kept my attention on the critic, watching her make notes in the small notebook she’d discreetly placed beside her wine glass.
“Fascinating,” she murmured. “And how long have you been cooking professionally, Clementine?”
“Not long,” Clementine admitted. “I’m still learning. But Chef Voss has been an incredible mentor.”
The conversation flowed around us. I found myself only half-listening, distracted by the woman beside me.
Clementine in her element, I realized. Not just in the kitchen, but in the world.
I was pretty sure she could sit down and talk with total strangers anywhere she went.
She had a way of making them feel special.
She had a gift that went beyond technical skill or culinary knowledge. She cooked with heart.
I felt something I hadn’t experienced in years.
Peace.
For once, I wasn’t thinking about the next course or the next critique or the next crisis that needed managing. I was just present in the moment and grateful for the strange journey that had brought me to the table sitting beside Clementine. She made everything better just by being in the room.