Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

#Chapter 55: Flour Fight
Abby

The ambiance of the restaurant after hours is one of muted stillness, a stark contrast to its bustling

daytime persona.

I absolutely cherish these moments, where the world seems to fade, and it’s just me and my culinary

creations.

Tonight, it’s not about a new dish or preparation for the next day’s service, nor is it even about the

upcoming cookoff for the Alpha party competition.

Instead, it’s personal. Chloe’s birthday is tomorrow, and there’s no way I’m going to let it slide without a

special treat. Hence, the covert operation: baking her a surprise birthday cake and finalizing our party

plans.

The ingredients lay sprawled on the counter: flour, sugar, eggs, chocolate, vanilla extract, and a myriad

of decorations. I’ve decided on a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting—her absolute favorite.

As I start mixing the batter, a shadow unexpectedly looms over me.

Startled, I nearly drop the whisk. Turning around, I’m met with the piercing gaze of Karl. He stands

there, his arms crossed, a mixture of annoyance and curiosity evident in his brown eyes.

“Karl!” I exclaim, caught off guard. “What are you doing here? It’s late. You scared me half to death.”

He arches a brow. “Could say the same about you.”

Flustered, I reply, “I could ask you to leave since I literally own the place.”

His smirk is both infuriating and charming at the same time. “Trying to pull rank on me, Abby? Really?”

“Well, what do you want?” I sigh, not in the mood for his banter, especially given our recent encounter.

Instead of answering, he glances down at the mess on the counter, then back to me, eyes softening a

little.

“Baking a cake, huh?”

I nod, rolling my eyes. “Observant, aren’t we?”

“I can help,” he offers, surprisingly sincere.

“With the way you reacted the other day? I think I’m good, thanks,” I respond, a little sharper than

between us is still fresh

out angrily since I told him that I couldn’t have sex

down, momentarily lost in thought. When he speaks, his voice is filled

be a fan of surprises, but I can’t bear

not you. Let me

the genuineness in his gaze. “You’re not still

other day?”

his hair. “A bit, yeah. But this isn’t about that. It’s about…”

words.

“Fine, but

brown eyes glint with mischief, replacing the annoyance in them. “Wouldn’t dream

hands quickly and then moves to stand beside me. With deft

of cocoa powder. The

luscious.

the next hour, it’s a blend of teamwork and teasing. There’s

laugh at each other’s quips and focus on

a mold, and it’s slid into the preheated

brushing my flour-covered hands on my

a cupped hand full of flour. “How about a

I can process what he means, a cloud of white powder is flung at me, dusting

is clinging to my hair, eyelashes, and the tip of my nose. I stare at

shock giving

both shocked and amused. I look at him, my expression feigned outrage,

betray me. “You’ll

deep, infectious sound. “Bring

another word, I scoop up a generous handful of flour and, with all

it right

reaction is comically slow. The flour smacks him square

second, the kitchen is shrouded in silence—then both of us erupt in peals

laughter.

two, two becomes four, and before we know it, we’re

white powder fly in every direction, settling on

everywhere.

freeing. As we duck, dodge, and counter-attack,

back in time.

of our old shared kitchen resurface—of simpler times when we used to engage in

laughing on the floor. And then,

intimate closeness.

flashes of those memories—of tangled limbs

turn away, the reminiscing threatening to reveal

to

the oven, noticing that the cake’s baking time is nearly up. “Okay, okay! Truce!” I call

hands raised in surrender.

toe in flour, grins. “Fine, truce. But

I gesture at the utter mess we’ve made. “Look at this! Now, who’s going