By her second year in Montreal, Abbie had learned how to live without falling apart.
Mornings smelled like fresh bread from the bakery. Afternoons like coffee and soil samples at McGill. Nights like exhaustion.She’d made peace with being tired, because tired meant progress.
When Francis mentioned a one-night catering job at The Ritz-Carlton Montreal, Abbie said yes without thinking twice.
“One of my cousins works there,” he’d said. “Corporate dinner. Bank people. Suits, speeches — boring stuff. Pay’s thirty bucks an hour. Cash. You’ll survive.”
Abbie’s eyes widened at the rate.
Alma grinned and high-fived him. “Oh yeah! Survive? Babe, I’m thriving the second free food’s involved.”
Abbie smirked. “Until someone mistakes you for a canapé.”
The ballroom shimmered like a dream, chandeli
