Abby

I walk into my restaurant the next morning, the scent of fresh coffee and baked bread filling the air. The

morning sun casts long beams of light through the windows, but the atmosphere inside feels oddly

electric, tense yet filled with a strange and unexpected kind of exhilaration.

It’s the day after last night’s events, and I’m running on a blend of excitement and worry, my thoughts a

toss-up between optimism and that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Did I make a mistake with Anton? Was it all an elaborate con for free food and a hotel room, or perhaps

even a bizarre dream? Most importantly, what if he never actually shows?

As I head toward the kitchen, though, it quickly becomes apparent that something is off. My staff are

gathered around the kitchen door, oohing, aahing, and giggling at something going on inside.

Enter title…

what’s going on?” I ask as I see my restaurant manager limping his way towards

of concern

this strange French man you’ve brought into the kitchen?

against the counter and rubbing his forehead

racing at the

how he fits in. Maybe he’ll stay

a wary look but doesn’t press further. He knows me too well

until we’re in hot

way through the maze of excited staff. I reach the kitchen

and that’s when the tantalizing aroma of

I hear it—laughter. Real, genuine laughter echoing through the air, and

I told you, if your batter has more lumps than a teenager’s face, your

uneven as a poorly laid

is. Anton’s thick French accent, which sounds even more delightful in the

room. “Anton, you have a way with words,

me—this will be the best damn cheesecake you’ve

Anton, standing near the counter with

servers watch in awe. They’re like a comedy duo, like two puzzle pieces that

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