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

lost in thought. When he speaks, his voice

“Look, I might not be a fan of surprises, but

Let

only by his words but the genuineness in his

other day?”

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

the right words. “…Doing

in his voice warms my heart. “Fine, but only if you promise not to

mischief, replacing the

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

of cocoa powder.

luscious.

blend of teamwork and teasing. There’s an

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

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

flour-covered

up a cupped hand full of flour. “How about a little fun

he means, a cloud of white powder is

eyelashes, and the tip of my nose. I stare

giving way

amused. I look at him, my expression feigned outrage, but

lips betray me. “You’ll

a deep, infectious sound. “Bring

generous handful of flour and, with all

it right at

comically slow. The flour smacks him square in

the kitchen is shrouded in silence—then

laughter.

four, and before we know it, we’re engaged

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

everywhere.

chaotic, but it’s also… freeing. As we duck, dodge, and

back in time.

of our old shared kitchen resurface—of simpler times

the floor. And then, almost always,

intimate closeness.

as flashes of those memories—of

the reminiscing threatening to reveal

trying to

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

hands raised in surrender.

flour, grins. “Fine, truce. But only because you

gesture at the utter mess we’ve made. “Look