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, the

I told him that I couldn’t have

he speaks, his

not be a fan of surprises, but I

you. Let

but the genuineness in his gaze.

other day?”

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

words. “…Doing

heart. “Fine, but only if you promise not to mess it

glint with mischief, replacing the

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

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

luscious.

teamwork and teasing. There’s an

as we laugh at each other’s quips and focus on perfecting the

mold, and it’s slid into the preheated oven.

flour-covered hands on

hand full of flour. “How

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

eyelashes, and the tip of my nose. I

shock giving way

look at him, my expression feigned outrage,

lips betray me. “You’ll

fills the room, a deep, infectious sound. “Bring

generous handful of flour and, with all the strength

it right at

is comically slow. The flour smacks him square in the face, rendering him ghost-like

split second, the kitchen is shrouded in

laughter.

before we know it, we’re engaged in an all-out

white powder fly in every direction, settling on counters, the floor,

everywhere.

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

back in time.

simpler times when we

end up laughing on the floor. And then, almost always, laughter would give way to

intimate closeness.

cheeks as flashes

away, the reminiscing threatening to

to

at the oven, noticing that the cake’s baking time is

hands raised in surrender.

flour, grins.

utter mess we’ve made. “Look at