Abby
As soon as the door opens and Mr. Thompson’s figure appears in the doorway, my heart jumps into my throat.
A palpable wave of embarrassment washes over me; I’m suddenly painfully aware of my disheveled appearance.
My hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few stray locks defiantly escaping, and my clothes are not the crisp, chef whites that once defined my professional persona but rather a loose sweater and jeans combo that screams “I’ve given up on the kitchen.”
“Mr. Thompson, uh, hello,” I stammer, standing up from my chair so abruptly it screeches against the floor.
“Hello, Abby,” Mr. Thompson says.
I swallow. What is he doing here? “Please, come in.” I gesture towards the chair opposite my cluttered desk, hastily shoving papers into piles to create a se
