The Bad Boy's Bride

When I decided to fly out here, in my mind it wasn’t a serious possibility, hooking up with him. It was a fantasy, and once I couldn’t kick. But I still prepared to be sexy. And thank God that I did. I don’t put my bra back on and the silky shirt rubs at my nipples luxuriously. By the time I’m putting on my boots, my nipples are hard peaks.

When I step into the hall and Clayton’s eyes devour me, I know I packed just the right clothes for my Wyoming get-away.

Clayton whistles. “You make it very difficult to want to leave.”

I smirk. “In charge in the bedroom or not, if I don’t get some food in me, I won’t have energy for anything else.”

“Then let’s go.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the warm evening air.

Just that simple gesture has the butterflies in my stomach swarming.

The guest dining room is in the large main lodge where I left my luggage this morning, but I hadn’t seen anything beyond the lobby. The actual dining room is clean and modern and open, with large walls of windows that let in the light of the setting sun and look out over the property. It is truly beautiful.

There are a few people still eating, but it is late enough that the place is mostly empty. Clayton chooses a table and waves to one of the waitresses. He makes no move to let go of my hand, holding it across the table. So we are really doing this.

“Hey, Clayton,” the girl says as she approaches.

“Emily, this is my wife, Rachel.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “Wow, it’s nice to meet you!”

“You too.”

“Is Martin still cooking?” Clayton asks. “We were hoping to sneak something in.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “You know he’ll cook whatever you want.”

“Two specials will be fine,” he answers.

The girl disappears. “Sorry for ordering for you, I figured it was easier since the kitchen is near closing.”

I squeeze his hand. “I very much get it.” There’s been no sign that Clayton knows that I’m a chef, and I’m not sure that this moment is the right time to put that kind of pressure on him.

But the conversation that we do have is nice. Simple, first date type stuff. What we’ve been reading and watching, where we grew up. Things that are light and breezy compared to the…enormity of what we talked about at the house.

The food comes. Chicken with lemon and garlic mashed potatoes. A small salad and a side of vegetables. It’s perfectly fine. Not stellar at all, but I’m so hungry that really anything is satisfying.

“You work in the culinary arts,” Clayton says.

“Yeah, I do.”

“What do you think of the food?”

I hesitate, not wanting to hurt his feelings over the food that I’d just labeled as completely average and fine in my mind. He sees my hesitation and reaches across the table for my hand. “One hundred percent honesty, remember? I wouldn’t ask the question if I didn’t want to know the answer.”

I give him a nervous smile. “It’s fine. It’s not amazing or exciting, but it’s not bad either. It’s just…fine.”

Clayton chuckles. “That’s fair. Thank you for being honest.”

We’re nearly done with our food. “Can I see the kitchen?”

“Sure.”

He takes me back, and the kitchen is surprisingly chaotic for the end of a service. I can see the head chef right away, delegating tasks to get the kitchen ready for the following day, but I can see right away that he’s in over his head.

“Hey Martin.” Clayton waves him over.

“Hey boss.”

“This is my wife, Rachel,” he says, introducing me. “She works in the culinary field and wanted to see the kitchen.”

Martin looks shocked through his exhausted panic. “What do you do?”

I try to be cordial about it. “My most recent position was junior chef at Alaban in Denver.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Clayton looking at me. What does he think of me being a chef and judging his food?

“Holy shit,” Martin says. “Well, we do the best we can here. Probably not what you’re used to.”

I look him in the eye and sense his despair. I’m not sure exactly what’s causing the problem, but he’s not ready for this. Following my instinct, I suddenly speak. “I’d like to take over tomorrow’s dinner service, if that’s okay.”

“Rachel,” Clayton says, and I would be willing to bet that he’s going to stop me, but Martin cuts him off.

“That would be amazing. We can use all the help we can get.”

Clayton looks shocked.

“It’s settled then,” I say, smirking at my husband. As soon as I get my hands on this kitchen—and it is an incredibly beautiful kitchen, or would be without the frantic atmosphere—I’m going to show Clayton exactly what I can do.

We say goodbye to Martin, and he pulls me back outside and toward his house. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You can take more time to settle in before we put you to work.”