“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…

know that I’m not just here for a

swallow, deciding to feign ignorance.

disregard tabloid journalism just as much

pot, to say the least. Is it true?

exactly what I feared, but I’m not about to lie.

“Anton is homeless, but he’s an excellent chef.

life back in order.

stone for him

pauses for a moment, clearly moved by my little speech. But there’s also something

something

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

“How so?”

the competition, which puts you under our

you, but on the competition

do is

just over Anton, but also over the

hasn’t

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