Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

#Chapter 94: Sous Chef Struggles

Abby

The restaurant has long since closed, but the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic still lingers in the air.

The sound of sizzling oil on the stove and the faint melody of a song that I don’t like wafting from a

speaker in the corner mix together to create a tense symphony that I absolutely don’t need to be

hearing right now.

I’m stressed, to say the least. Really stressed.

John stands next to me, his eyes focused as he skillfully dices tomatoes. His posture is rigid, the

tension between us as palpable as the texture of the dough I’m kneading for our homemade pasta.

“How’s the dough coming along?” he asks, throwing a quick glance my way.

“It’s fine. Just needs a bit more kneading,” I reply, my palms pushing and folding as I get lost in the

repetitive motion.

John grunts in acknowledgment and moves on to chop basil. There’s an air of seriousness around him,

an unwavering concentration that should make me feel reassured.

And yet, it doesn’t.

Instead, I’m hyper-aware of the disconnect, the invisible yet unignorable gap between us. It feels like

we’re reading from different recipes, never quite aligning.

“Could you pass me the olive oil?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a moment, but there’s none of the warmth or understanding

that I used to feel when Karl and I worked side by side in the kitchen.

I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but with Karl, it was natural to work together. Sure, we had our

moments, but we worked well together. I like John and he’s a good cook, but we just don’t have that

same chemistry in the kitchen. What should feel effortless instead feels like a chore.

John drizzles the oil over the tomatoes, then hesitates, looking at the array of spices laid out in front of

him. “I think a touch of paprika would give the sauce a nice kick.”

know,” I say, biting my lip. “The recipe is already

throw it off.”

polite so as not to rock the boat, but in reality, I’m thinking to myself:

John? Are you crazy?”

furrowed. “We’re not following the recipe

to

shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of the dish,” I retort, a little

than I

and takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in

to be your sous chef for this competition. If you don’t trust my judgment, then why am

here?”

the air, and I can’t look him

not Karl? My hands grip the edge

not that I don’t trust your judgment,” I finally say, my voice tinged with remorse.

to be

groan. “That’s your problem,” he growls. “You want

perfect.”

murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep

him to be my

in having

the mood has shifted.

just seems defeated.

sauce and gives it a stir. “There.

into the sauce, tasting it simultaneously. It’s…

just not what I wanted. None of this is what I

being

out horribly.

me,” John says gruffly, breaking

half-agree,

out

meet his annoyed gaze.

and tosses it

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

to the door,

up

one day,” he says, his eyes meeting mine for a moment over his

the door.

gone, leaving me alone

glance around at the chaotic landscape of

splattered

mutter a

and banging dishes into

my thoughts drift back to last week, the moment of optimism when I had asked John to