#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
is still
angrily since I told him that I couldn’t have sex
lost in thought. When he
of surprises, but I can’t bear to see
not you. Let me
but the genuineness
other day?”
hand through his hair. “A bit,
right words.
heart. “Fine, but only
with mischief, replacing the annoyance in them.
stand beside me. With deft
amount of cocoa powder. The
luscious.
it’s a blend of teamwork and teasing.
as we laugh at each other’s quips
poured into a mold, and it’s slid into the preheated oven. “Now, we
my flour-covered hands on
of
what he means, a cloud of white powder is flung at me, dusting my hair and
clinging to my hair, eyelashes, and the tip of my nose. I stare at
giving way
shocked and amused. I look at him, my expression feigned
my lips betray me. “You’ll
fills the room, a deep,
generous handful of flour
it right
is comically slow. The flour smacks him square in
second, the kitchen is shrouded in silence—then both of us erupt in
laughter.
handful becomes two, two becomes four, and before
fly in every direction, settling on counters,
everywhere.
but it’s also… freeing. As we duck, dodge, and counter-attack, I’m
back in time.
of our old shared kitchen resurface—of simpler
up laughing on the floor. And
intimate closeness.
flashes of those memories—of tangled
I quickly turn away, the
to
oven, noticing that the cake’s baking time is nearly up. “Okay, okay! Truce!”
hands raised in surrender.
covered head to toe in flour, grins. “Fine, truce. But
we’ve made.
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