“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…

feel. “I don’t know, but he’s asking some

didn’t know what

I put down the chalk and head to the front of the restaurant, where

a crumpled suit is flipping through a notepad.

even

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

me. What can I do for

interior of my restaurant, the pristine table

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

Abby, word has gotten out that you’ve hired a homeless person as a

comment?”

is casual, but his eyes are predatory. Suddenly, all

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

qualified for the job.”

notebook, not breaking eye

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