Chapter 30
CLEMENTINE
Icouldn’t believe how pretty the venue was. It was stunning. The live choir just made the dining experience so much better. No one seemed all that eager to leave. I didn’t blame them. It was warm and inviting inside and outside sounded horrible.
Guests were lingering over wine and taking advantage of the extra desserts being delivered by the kitchen staff. Our table had all moved along to mingle with others. It was just me and Rhett at our table. We had been lost in conversation for a good thirty minutes.
I had never seen him like this before. He was relaxed.
And he seemed very willing to share pieces of himself that went beyond the professional mask he usually wore.
Maybe it was the wine, or the atmosphere of dining in a cathedral, or simply the knowledge that our time together was running out.
But he was definitely different. Whatever the reason, I liked it.
I was eating it up and I was perfectly fine sitting at the table for the next six hours if he kept talking.
“Vegas was brutal,” he said, swirling the last of the wine in his glass.
“Four years of my life, working sixteen-hour days at some of the most prestigious restaurants in the city. I created dishes that are still on those menus today—signature items that bring in thousands of dollars in revenue every month.”
“But no credit?” I asked, though I already knew the answer from the bitter edge in his voice.
“None. That’s how it works when you’re coming up.
You’re a ghost in someone else’s kitchen, pouring your creativity into their reputation.
I developed a duck confit technique that’s still the signature at Le Bernardin Vegas.
I created a chocolate dessert that won three different culinary awards, perfected a sauce that food critics called ‘transcendent.’ But you would never know that.
No one will except the people that were in the kitchen with me. ”
He paused, his jaw tightening with old frustration. “But when the interviews came out, when the awards were announced, it was always the executive chef’s vision, the executive chef’s innovation. I was just another pair of hands in the kitchen.”
I reached across the table without thinking, my fingers covering his. “That must have been so hard. To know you were creating something beautiful and not be able to own it.”
“It was,” he admitted, his eyes finding mine.
“But it taught me something important—this industry can be thankless. People will take credit for your work, steal your ideas, minimize your contributions. You have to love it enough to keep going anyway, because the passion has to be bigger than the recognition.”
I knew why he was telling me his story. He wanted me to understand he was only doing what had been done to him.
“I get it,” I said. “That doesn’t really make it right, though.”
He shrugged. “No, but can you imagine serving a food critic or any guest for that matter and then announcing they just paid five-hundred bucks for a meal the chef didn’t prepare?
Or the fact the head chef is the draw and created ninety percent of the meal and now someone else is hoping to jump on their coattails. ”
I frowned. “That’s not what I was trying to do.”
“I know. I’m just trying to help you understand that you’re not the only one that has been slighted. Still, it wasn’t right and I am going to do my best to never do it again.”
I smiled because it was progress. It was a small bit of vindication.
“You have that passion,” he continued, his thumb tracing across my knuckles where our hands were joined.
“I see it every time you cook. The way you taste a sauce and adjust the seasoning, the care you put into plating, the way you light up when a dish comes together perfectly. You have what it takes, Clem.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Running a kitchen? That’s different. That requires leadership, authority, the ability to make tough decisions and have people follow them without question. I don’t know if I want to be cutthroat. That doesn’t bring me any joy.”
“You could run your own kitchen, no problem,” he said with such certainty that I almost believed him. “I’ve watched you work. You have instincts, creativity, technical skill—all the tools you need.”
“But I’m not…” I gestured vaguely, trying to articulate my doubts. “I’ve always been better at loving on people than giving them orders. I don’t have your commanding presence or natural authority.”
“Good,” he said firmly. “The last thing the culinary world needs is another version of me. You have to lean into your style, not try to adopt mine or someone else’s.
The way you connect with people and the way you make everyone around you feel valued and appreciated is your style.
That’s not a weakness, Clem. That’s your superpower. ”
For weeks, I had been trying to figure out how to fit into the existing structure of professional kitchens.
I had tried to make myself harder or more like the chefs I admired.
But maybe the answer wasn’t about changing who I was.
Maybe it was about finding a way to be authentically myself while still commanding respect.
“You really think so?” I asked.
“I know so.” The conviction in his voice made my heart skip. “You’re going to be extraordinary. And I can’t wait to see what you do with all that talent.”
The way he was looking at me in the candlelight with such genuine admiration and belief made me feel like I could conquer the world.
Or at least conquer a kitchen. The urge to kiss him was overwhelming, right here in front of all these people, in this sacred space where we’d shared something beautiful.
His gaze dropped to my lips, and I knew he was thinking the same thing. The air between us felt charged with possibility.
It was impossible to ignore the connection between us.
“Do we keep this a secret forever?” I whispered, the question slipping out before I could stop it. “Whatever this is?”
His expression grew serious. I could practically see him weighing his words.
“It would be complicated,” he said finally.
“Messy. People will be critical—of both of us, but especially me. Articles will be written, and assumptions will be made. The attention will bleed into your life in ways you can’t imagine.
It might be best for you to dodge all that. ”
“But then I wouldn’t get to see you anymore. I wouldn’t get to cook alongside you or learn from you.”
Something shifted in his expression, sadness flickering across his features. “I know.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No,” he said, so firmly that it caught me off guard. “No, that’s not what I want at all.”
“Me neither.”
We looked at each other with both of us acknowledging what we wanted but also understanding the obstacles in our way. The age difference, the professional complications, the media scrutiny that would inevitably follow—none of it would be easy.
But sitting there with him and his hand on mine, I found myself thinking that maybe some things were doable, even if they were difficult.
How bad could it be? People would talk shit and then they would move on. Being with him would make it worth it, right?
Maybe for me it would, but I couldn’t ask him to sacrifice his career.
Rhett leaned forward, his intention clear in the way his gaze focused on my mouth. My breath caught as he moved closer. I found myself tilting toward him, drawn by the gravity of everything we shared and everything we wanted to share.
Kissing him in public would set the ball rolling. He was leaning in. That had to mean he was ready.
Oh God.
It was happening.
Just as his lips were about to meet mine, the cathedral’s main doors burst open with a sound like thunder. Cold air rushed in.
The entire room went silent. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, wine glasses paused halfway to lips. Every head turned toward the entrance. Audible gasps echoed off the stone walls as a group of men strode through the doorway like they owned the place.
Maybe they did.
There were five of them, all dressed in expensive black suits that probably cost more than most people made in a month.
Their jewelry caught the candlelight. Thick gold chains, watches that gleamed like small suns, and rings that looked heavy enough to do damage in a fight.
They moved with the kind of confidence that came from never having to ask permission for anything.
But what struck me most was how much they looked like Rhett.
The resemblance was unmistakable. The same dark hair, the same strong jawline, the same piercing eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. They were older, harder around the edges, but the family connection was written in their bone structure and the way they carried themselves.
The men were badasses. Scary badasses. I didn’t know who they were, but it was obvious they were related. I suddenly understood where Rhett got the air of danger from.
It just oozed out of all of them.
Rhett went rigid beside me, his hand suddenly tense under mine.
“What is it?” I whispered, though I was already getting to my feet along with everyone else in our section. “Who are they?”
But Rhett didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched. There was something in his expression I had never seen before—not frustration or irritation.
He was pissed.
Furious.
The men swept their gazes across the room, clearly looking for someone specific. They looked like predators. When the tallest one’s eyes found Rhett, his face split into a smile.
“There he is,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the silent sanctuary.
The other guests were murmuring. Everyone was uncertain and uncomfortable with this intrusion into what had been such a perfect evening. Father McKenna appeared from somewhere near the altar, his expression concerned as he approached the uninvited visitors.
“Gentlemen,” he said with the kind of calm authority that came from years of pastoral care. “I’m afraid this is a private event. If you would like to make a reservation for one of our public services—”
“We’re not here for God, Padre,” the tall man interrupted, never taking his eyes off Rhett.
My blood went cold. These weren’t random party crashers or overzealous fans.
They were here for Rhett.
Did chefs have enemies?
Maybe this whole chef thing wasn’t what I thought it was.