“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 don’t

didn’t know what to

to the front of

is flipping through a notepad. He looks up, his eyes

even have the chance

Kohler. I’m with the Daily Dispatch. You’re Abby,

What can

taking in the interior of

like he’s trying to see through the walls, and I’m

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

comment?”

eyes are predatory. Suddenly, all of this feels like

“And he’s been an excellent addition to the team.

qualified for the job.”

not breaking eye

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