Chapter 38
CLEMENTINE
This was it, the final pop-up event before Thanksgiving, and everything felt different. The stakes were higher, the crowd was more exclusive, and the weight of what had happened between Rhett and me hung over everything like a storm cloud.
I didn’t read the stories published this morning, but I knew they were out there. My father was trying to be normal, but I felt his disappointment at the breakfast table this morning. Mom said nothing. Henry was doing his best to keep things light.
I knew a scholarship wouldn’t make or break his career. My parents had money. It was the football thing. Recruiters weren’t going to be interested in bringing in a kid that would lead to headlines that had nothing to do with their football program.
Staying away from Rhett was the only way to make this whole thing die. Everyone was going to be watching us to see if we would sneak away for another hot kiss or if Rhett would try and cop a feel.
VIP guests in designer gowns and perfectly tailored suits mingled in the ballroom. They sipped cocktails and talked about their plans for the holidays. Some were headed to Aspen and others for the south of France. It was an elite crowd with money to burn.
Dad’s project needed their financial support. I couldn’t do anything that would steal the attention from what we were all doing here.
I spotted at least three food bloggers I recognized and two camera crews setting up in strategic corners. My stomach churned as I realized they’d all be watching, waiting for any sign of drama between me and Rhett.
I wasn’t going to give it to them.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the kitchen doors and immediately got to work, keeping my head down and my hands busy. The familiar rhythm of prep work was comforting, even if everything else felt wrong.
I probably should have worn the standard black uniform, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I was sure it was completely made up in my head, but when I wore all black, I felt constrained.
I couldn’t cook well. My flair for spice was muted.
I needed my vibrant colors. Which was why I went with the black pants and pretty yellow top that felt like wearing sunshine.
Everyone avoided me. I felt like I was the plague instead of the bundle of sunshine I was trying to project.
Ten minutes into prep, Conroy appeared at my station with a gentle smile that somehow made everything feel a little less overwhelming.
“Hey there, little one,” he said. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically, not looking up from the vegetables I was dicing. “Really glad you’re back. How’s your arm?”
“Good,” he said, lifting it and showing off the range of motion. “Listen, Clem—”
“I said I’m fine, Conroy.” I kept my knife moving in steady, precise cuts. “Just focused on getting through tonight.”
“I know you are. But I also know you well enough to see when you’re having a rough go of it. I’ve been watching you the last few weeks. Up and down and always soldiering on. You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
“I’m just tired,” I said. “Looking forward to Thanksgiving.”
“You should ignore the tabloids, you know. They’re just vultures looking for their next meal.”
I snorted, finally looking up at him. “That’s a lot easier said than done when your face is plastered all over them.
Me in what I thought was a private moment.
They’re making me look like I climb every chef I’ve ever worked with.
My father’s life’s work is being threatened because of my poor judgment. ”
“Your poor judgment?” Conroy’s eyebrows shot up. “Clem, you’re a grown woman who developed feelings for someone. That’s not poor judgment, that’s being human.”
I went back to my vegetables, cutting them smaller than they needed to be just to have something to do with my hands. “Tell that to the sponsors who pulled out of the soup kitchen project.”
“Look,” Conroy said, moving closer and lowering his voice. “I know Rhett can be intense. Hell, I’ve worked with the guy for three years, and sometimes he makes me want to throw a pan at his head. But he’s not the monster those articles are making him out to be.”
“I never said he was a monster.”
“No, but you’re treating him like one. Like he’s some kind of disease you need to avoid.” Conroy crossed his arms. “The man showed up at your house last night in a tuxedo with a dress and jewelry, Clem. That’s not the behavior of someone who was just looking for a hookup.”
My knife stilled. “He told you about that?”
“He didn’t have to tell me. I was with him when he was buying the dress. Spent two hours at Bloomingdale’s asking every saleswoman in the place for advice.” Conroy shook his head. “I’ve never seen him like that. He was nervous, excited, talking about how he wanted to do right by you.”
The image of Rhett nervously consulting department store employees made my chest ache. I’d been so caught up in my own panic that I hadn’t really processed what that gesture must have meant to him.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said quietly. “It can’t matter.”
“Why? Because people you’ve never met said so? Man, I thought you were made of sterner stuff. It’s probably for the best you ended things before they could really get started. He doesn’t need that shit in his life.”
I flinched at the harsh edge in Conroy’s tone. He never spoke like that.
He walked away and got to work.
I knew I was doing the right thing. And it wasn’t like Rhett would be alone forever. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. He would definitely recover.
Ten minutes later, Rhett arrived.
He swept into the kitchen in a black chef’s coat, black pants, and a black mood. His dark eyes scanned the room, taking inventory, and I could practically feel the temperature drop.
He was in a shitty mood. Everyone could feel it. The quiet conversations around the kitchen stopped. Everyone was on edge.
“Who the hell put the garnish station here?” he barked at one of the chefs. “Move it. Now.”
“The sauce is too thin,” he snapped at another cook. “Start over.”
I kept my head down, focusing on julienning vegetables. But when we started working on the main course—duck breast with cherry gastrique—there was no avoiding him.
“Your knife work is sloppy,” he said curtly, not even looking at me as he seasoned a pan. “Pay attention to your cuts.”
“Yes, Chef,” I replied quietly.
“The gastrique needs more acid. Didn’t I teach you anything about balancing flavors?”
“Yes, Chef.”
He paused, seeming to wait for me to push back, to defend myself, to show some spark. When I didn’t, his jaw tightened.
“Plate presentation is everything tonight,” he continued, his voice harsher than necessary. “These people are paying five hundred dollars a plate. They expect perfection.”
“I understand, Chef.”
“Do you? Because right now you’re acting like a robot, not a chef.”
I looked up at him then, and for just a moment I saw something flicker in his eyes. Hurt. Maybe frustration. But I couldn’t afford to care about his feelings right then.
“I’m following your lead,” I said evenly. “Just like you taught me.”
He turned away with a grunt and went to bitch at someone else. Conroy didn’t avoid the line of fire. To my surprise, he didn’t push back. He just took it. I saw him look my way once. In fact, several of the chefs were looking at me.
They blamed me for Rhett’s shitty attitude.
They weren’t wrong. I had made him angry.
I hurt him and now he was taking it out on everyone else.
If I were braver, I would demand he take it out on me.
But I wasn’t brave. I was going to keep my head down and get through the last service.
Once we were done here, we were done. I doubted I would see Rhett again.
And that was a good thing.
The rest of service passed in tense efficiency.
To my surprise, everything went off without a hitch.
No burnt dishes, no timing issues, no drama in front of the cameras.
The guests raved about the food and the charity raised more money than expected.
Even the media seemed satisfied with their coverage of the successful event.
I should have felt proud. Instead, I just felt hollow.
It was over.
All of it.
Getting to cook with talented chefs. Getting to learn from Rhett.
It was entirely possible I had tanked my career as well.
No one wanted a woman who hooked up with the chef in the kitchen.
The cooking world was already cutthroat.
I was already a target, given my last name.
And I just made that target even bigger.
As the kitchen wound down and staff began cleaning up, I slipped out the back door into the alley behind the hotel. I wasn’t expected to clean up and I had no intention of sticking around any longer than necessary. The cold air was a welcome relief after hours in the hot kitchen.
“Clementine Hartley?”
I spun around to see a man with a camera and a predatory smile approaching me.
“I’m Jake Morrison from City Scene Magazine. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about what it’s like working so closely with Chef Voss? There are rumors that you two have gotten… close.”
My heart started hammering. “I’m not interested in talking to you.”
“Come on, just a few questions. What’s it like to work with someone so intense? Is he as passionate in the kitchen as he is in his personal relationships?”
“Please leave me alone.” I backed toward the door, but he followed.
Of course, the damn door locked from the inside. There was no getting back in unless I rang the bell. The last thing I needed was more attention.
I started walking toward the street. It felt like the lesser of two evils. More reporters and questions were better than being caught in a dark alley with the man on my heels.
“Look, everyone knows something’s going on. Why not tell your side of the story? What’s it like to make out with a chef connected to the mob?”
“Get lost,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.
“Just one quote.”
“She said get lost.” Rhett’s voice cut through the alley like a blade.
I spun around. I could see the dangerous set of his shoulders. Wearing all black in the shadows made Rhett look every inch the mafia badass they were trying to make him out to be.
The reporter took one look at Rhett’s expression and practically ran away.
“Thank you,” I said quietly once we were alone.
“Don’t mention it,” he grunted.
We stood there in awkward silence, the space between us feeling like an ocean. He had changed out of his chef’s coat and was wearing a simple black sweater with a clean pair of black pants.
“You look nice,” he said finally, his voice softer than it had been all night.
“Thank you.”
More silence. I could feel all the words we weren’t saying burning in the air between us. There were a thousand apologies, explanations, and confessions that would only make everything worse.
“This has been an experience of a lifetime,” I said because I needed to say something, needed to acknowledge what we had shared over these past weeks.
“Don’t,” he said immediately.
“Don’t what?”
His eyes met mine. I saw all the pain I had been trying to ignore reflected back at me.
“It sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”