“No hard feelings,” Anton adds. “Besides, you gave me the fire I needed. Every kitchen needs a little heat,

oui?”

The evening rush is in full swing, and I’m feeling that exhilarating mix of adrenaline and contentment that

comes from seeing the restaurant function like a well-oiled machine. The clinking of silverware, the

murmur of customers, and the sizzle from the kitchen—it’s all music to my ears.

I’m busy updating the specials on our chalkboard when Daisy rushes over, her eyes as wide as saucers.

“Abby, there’s a guy here. Says he’s a journalist? He wants to talk to you.”

My gut clenches.”A journalist? Now? Why?”

Enter title…

as I feel. “I

I didn’t know what

chalk and head to the front of the restaurant, where a

is flipping through a notepad. He looks up,

extends a hand before I even

Kohler. I’m with the

that’s me. What can I

the interior of my restaurant, the pristine table settings, the

he’s trying to see through the walls, and I’m not sure

that you’ve hired a homeless person as a chef in your kitchen.

comment?”

eyes are predatory. Suddenly, all of

say cautiously. “And he’s been an

qualified for the job.”

scribbles something in his notebook, not breaking eye contact. “Interesting choice, don’t

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