“Here we are,” I announce, gesturing at the controlled chaos around me.

Mr. Thompson steps in, his eyes moving critically from the prep stations to the line cooks and finally to

Anton, who is still engrossed in his soup. His gaze lingers on the French chef for a few moments,

hesitating, before landing on me. “Busy today, huh?”

“Yes, very,” I respond. “Business has been good, and we aim to keep it that way.”

“I see cleanliness is a priority as always,” he observes, his gaze lingering on Anton once more.

I can’t shake the feeling that I—or rather, Anton—am being tested, but I plaster a smile on my face and

nod. “Of course, Mr. Thompson. We always get top ratings on our health reports.”

After a few more moments of looking around, Mr. Thompson nods in a satisfied manner and follows me to

the door. But once we’re in the hallway, alone, his facade seems to drop ever so slightly.

Enter title…

I’m not just here for

swallow, deciding to feign

I disregard tabloid journalism just as much as the next guy,”

to say the least. Is it true? Your new chef is

exactly what I feared, but I’m

chin up. “Anton is homeless, but he’s an excellent chef. We’re

about getting his life back

him in that

a moment, clearly moved by my little speech. But there’s

eyes, something that

very sweet, Abby,” he says. “But also a liability. I

“How so?”

a finalist for the competition, which puts you under our brand. An incident

you, but on the

my stomach lurch, but all I can do is keep holding my chin high and hope for the

over Anton, but also over the emails that I was privy

thankfully hasn’t

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