Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy Chapter 1

Grab Your Copy Here Chapter OneRhett

Porcelain smashed somewhere behind me. One of my female employees yelped in surprise before crying out, “Collision!”

“Fuck me,” I growled.

Food on the floor was not a good look in a three-Michelin-star restaurant. We were better than that at Hallow, my pride and joy. I insisted upon it.

My eyes scanned the order that just popped up on the screen. Table twelve wanted their lamb medium rare, table seven needed their appetizers fired now, and table four was still waiting on their damn amuse-bouche.

“Behind hot!” Conroy shouted, weaving past me with a searing pan of duck confit.

Conroy Caines was my right-hand man. We’d worked together for four consecutive years, a true testament to his patience and grit. No employee had ever lasted that long in the kitchen with yours truly. Not because they weren’t talented in the kitchen, but because they just couldn’t take the pressure. Conroy? The guy could probably make himself comfortable in a pressure cooker if he had to.

Easily one of the worst inventions of this century. But hey, if people want tough meat cooked at a fraction of the time it deserved, so be it. Not everyone can have fully functioning taste buds.

My kitchen moved like a well-oiled machine, every chef knowing exactly where to step, when to duck, how to dance around each other without missing a beat. Except for whoever collided together and broke dishes. I could still hear people muttering under their breath as someone swept the debris into a dustpan and hollered, “Clear!”

I slammed my palm on the pass. “Where’s my scallop course for table nine?” My voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

“Plating now, Chef!” Sarah called from the fish station, her hands working quickly as she arranged three perfect seared scallops on the spotless plate.

Sweat beaded at my temples. While the AC worked, it was no match for the ovens, grills, and fryers in the industrial kitchen, not to mention the body heat of a full staff hustling the way I demand. But the guests were comfortable at their tables, a stark contrast to the chaos on the other side of the wall. Saturday nights at Hallow were controlled anarchy at its finest. I did not allow mistakes in my kitchen. My customers paid four hundred per head for the dining experience and they would get the very best this city had to offer.

“Service!” I barked, sliding the completed plates across the pass to the waiting servers, who moved quickly in their black uniforms without a speck of lint or food stains.

The dinner rush was brutal as usual, but it was just one of the many plates I was spinning. Between the PR meetings, the brand partnerships my publicist kept shoving down my throat, and trying to keep my name out of the gossip rags for all the wrong reasons, running a fine-dining kitchen felt almost simple by comparison. At least in here, I controlled everything.

I was checking the sear on a wagyu when Jessica, one of my front-of-house managers, slipped through the kitchen doors. Her usually composed expression was tight with stress. Her hair was pulled back in a smooth bun without a single hair out of place. Jessica was in her late forties and took no shit. She had raised two boys and told me during our interview if she survived that, she could survive anything.

“Chef, I need a word,” she said, keeping her voice low.

I didn’t look up from the grill. “Make it fast.”

“We’ve got a situation in the dining room. Table fifteen. They’re drunk, loud, and making the other guests uncomfortable. They’re demanding to see you specifically.” She paused. “They’re getting aggressive with the servers.”

I looked up at her.

Jessica smoothed out her uniform. “Sorry to bother you with this, Chef.”

“Conroy,” I grated.

“I’ve got the kitchen,” Conroy said, reading my mind. “Go handle the riff raff.”

Abandoning my post on a night like this wasn’t ideal, but Jessica was rattled, and I wasn’t going to tolerate that kind of behavior from clientele. This restaurant was my home away from home, and if someone wanted to fuck with my staff?

Well, they were in the wrong place. I stripped off my apron and rolled up my sleeves, letting my ink show. Sometimes the tattoos did more talking than words ever could.

And I was on fire.

Sweating.

Getting a little air on my skin felt good.

I pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. The heat and noise of the kitchen were a stark contrast to the sophisticated ambiance of the dining room I had spent years perfecting.

Hallow’s dining area stretched before me in all its moody, luxurious glory. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the glossy black marble floors. Those reflected the candlelight flickering in wall sconces and in crystal votive holders on tables draped in midnight black tablecloths. Customers wore their very best attire, not one of them looking out of place amongst the opulence.

I had no doubt many affairs and scandals played out in my dining room. I didn’t care. Good food inspired passion, and it wasn’t on me where those passions led.

I followed Jessica, nodding at a few customers enjoying the meals I had created. I didn’t miss the whispers and turned heads when they saw me. They were about to get a show, and they knew it.

I ran my hand through my sweat-dampened hair, slicking it back as I surveyed the room. The usual Saturday night crowd filled the space. It was the power players in thousand-dollar suits, socialites dripping in diamonds, celebrities trying to maintain their mystique in the dim lighting.

The soft murmur of conversation, flirty words, and backroom deals should have been all I heard. Instead, raucous laughter and raised voices cut through the refined atmosphere. I purposely avoided cheesy restaurant music. My dining room required something a bit more sensual. More everything. It was a combination of smoky jazz with hints of bass. It was loud enough to provide a veil of privacy but quiet enough that it was easy to talk over.

When I first opened the place, it had once been referred to as an underground sex club vibe. I didn’t argue. I didn’t take offense to the comparison. It just added to the allure. And people loved it.

Table fifteen sat in the far corner, and as soon as I laid eyes on them, I knew why Jessica had come to get me.

Four twenty-something assholes sat with their phones out, filming everything. Their table was littered with half-eaten plates. I was pretty sure they ordered at least one of everything off the menu. Why hadn’t I caught that when the tickets were coming in?

I shook off the thought and stared at my perfectly crafted dishes treated like props for their social media circus, feeds I wanted absolutely no presence on. One of them, a blond kid with a trendy haircut, designer jeans, and a diamond in his nose, had his phone aimed at the neighboring table where an older couple was clearly trying to enjoy a romantic dinner in peace.

I drew up to the side of their table and glared down at them. “You need to put the phones away. Now.”

The blond turned to me, his eyes lighting up like he’d just won the lottery. “Holy shit, you’re Rhett Voss! Bro, this is perfect.” He swung his phone toward me. “Can you tell my followers about your restaurant? This exposure could be worth like, fifty grand easy.”

I stepped closer, letting my full height cast a shadow over their table. While I was nothing like the rest of my family in a lot of ways, I had the whole tall, dark, and brooding thing like they all did. A rough childhood meant I also knew how to handle trouble, even if it required getting a little bloody.

Fucking with my food and my restaurant launched me into a whole new level of menacing.

“Put the phone away,” I told him.

“Look, dude, we’re influencers. We’ve got millions of followers between us.” Another one chimed in, skinny with too much gel in his brown hair. He had that whole Timothee Chalamet skinny thing going. I could snap him like a twig.

“I don’t care,” I said. “You’re disrupting the rest of my guests. It’s going to stop.”

“How about we make a deal?” the blond said. “Comp our meal and we’ll post about this place. Win-win, right? What do you say, Voss man?”

The entitlement in his voice made my jaw clench. “You want a deal? Here’s your fucking deal—pay your bill and get out before I throw you out.”

“Whoa, hostile much?” The blond laughed, still recording. “This is gold content, guys. Angry chef goes ballistic—”

I grabbed his wrist, the one holding the phone. My grip was firm enough to make him yelp and drop it. “I’m going to say this one more time. Turn off the cameras. Pay your bill. Leave. I won’t ask nicely again.”

“You can’t touch me, bro!” He tried to yank his hand back, but I squeezed it hard enough to hear his wrist bones creak.

“You’re disturbing my other guests. You’re filming people without permission. And now you’re trying to extort me for free food.” I shook my head without loosening my grip. “You’re lucky this is all I’m doing to you.”

The other three started getting loud, standing up from the table, their chairs scraping against the floor. I released the blond’s dainty wrist and straightened to my full height. These pampered pipsqueaks had no idea what they were dealing with.

“Security!” one of them called out, looking around wildly.

“This is my place,” I said, my voice deadly calm. “The security here works for me, not you little turds. Now, you have thirty seconds to pay your bill or we’re going to have a real problem.”

The blond rubbed his wrist, his bravado cracking. “You’re fucking crazy, man.”

“Twenty seconds.”

They scrambled for their wallets, throwing cash on the table, probably the first time they’d ever paid for anything themselves.

I studied the wad of cash and glanced at the plates scattered around the table. Lifting my chin, I said, “That covers the food. Now tip your server. Make sure it’s good. They had to deal with you.”

They put more cash on the table and I herded them to the exit, making sure they actually left. The blond tried to get one last shot with his phone as they walked out, so I stepped into frame and stared directly into the camera.

“We don’t tolerate bullshit at Hallow,” I said. “If you come here looking for trouble, you’ll find it.”

The door closed behind them with a satisfying thud. When I turned back to the dining room, the entire restaurant was watching me. Then someone started clapping. Then another. Soon the whole place was giving me a standing ovation.

I ran my hand through my hair, smoothing it back down. It was time to get back into chef mode. I headed toward the kitchen. A redhead in a black dress, that appeared to be at least one size too small for the very enhanced tits spilling over the top, stepped in front of me.

“That was incredible,” she purred. “I’m Vivian.” She slipped a napkin into my hand, her fingers lingering against my palm. “Call me. I’d love to show you my appreciation for how you handled those boys.”

She was beautiful, no question. Her cleavage was so milky white it practically glowed surrounded by all the darkness inside Hallow. Her green eyes held the promise that she knew what she wanted, and what’s more, she knew what to do with her prize once she claimed it.

“Thanks,” I said, pocketing the napkin.

She smiled, clearly expecting more of a reaction. When I didn’t elaborate, she touched my arm. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

I watched her walk back to her table, her hips swaying deliberately. Under different circumstances, maybe. But I had the Feed America Thanksgiving Tour consuming every spare minute I had, media obligations breathing down my neck, and a kitchen full of orders backing up while I dealt with social media parasites.

I pushed open the door into the kitchen and dropped the napkin in the nearest waste basket without looking back.

I didn’t have time for distractions, no matter how perfectly they filled out a black dress. And even if I did, I was just as particular about the women I spent time with as I was about every plate that left my kitchen. Perfection wasn’t negotiable in any aspect of my life.

The familiar heat and harsh overhead lighting welcomed me back. This was where I belonged. Where everything made sense.

“Chef!” Conroy called out. “How’d it go?”

“Took out the trash,” I said, tying my apron back on. “Now let’s cook some damn fine food.”