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

The memory of the recent confusion between us is still fresh in my mind,

since I told him that I

When he speaks, his voice is filled

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

you. Let me help,

but the genuineness in his gaze. “You’re

other day?”

through his hair. “A bit, yeah.

right words.

my heart. “Fine, but

mischief, replacing the annoyance in them.

hands quickly and then moves to stand beside me. With deft hands, he helps pour

adding just the right amount of cocoa powder. The batter comes together beautifully, velvety

luscious.

teamwork and teasing. There’s an unexpected ease between us,

at each other’s

a mold, and it’s slid

my flour-covered

of flour.

process what he means, a cloud of white

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

shock giving

shocked and amused. I look

escaping my lips betray me. “You’ll pay

deep, infectious

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

it right

The flour smacks him square in the face, rendering him ghost-like

shrouded in silence—then both

laughter.

two, two becomes four, and before we

of white powder fly in every direction, settling

everywhere.

also… freeing. As we duck,

back in time.

simpler times when we

laughing on the floor. And then, almost always, laughter would give

intimate closeness.

warmth fills my cheeks as flashes of those memories—of tangled limbs

turn away, the reminiscing threatening to

to

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

hands raised in surrender.

to toe in flour, grins. “Fine, truce. But only because you said

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