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.”

lip. “The recipe is already

throw it off.”

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

John? Are you crazy?”

looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “We’re not following the recipe to the letter, are we? I thought

was to make it our

‘our own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of the

than I

breath, visibly trying

this competition. If you don’t

here?”

can’t look

Karl? My hands grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning

judgment,” I finally say, my

this to be

lets out an audibly exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,” he growls. “You

perfect.”

down at the dough, trying to keep myself composed.

countless arguments with John since I asked him to be my sous chef for the competition

not interested in having another. “Let’s try the

again, but the mood

just seems defeated.

the paprika into the sauce and gives it a stir. “There. Let’s see how this

spoons into the sauce, tasting it simultaneously.

just not what I wanted. None of this is what

while that Karl would wind up being my sous chef for the competition,

out horribly.

John says gruffly,

It’s fine,” I half-agree, setting my spoon

lets out another groan.

and meet his annoyed gaze.

when John rips his apron off and tosses it down on

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

the door, but

made up

eyes meeting mine for a moment over his

reaches the door. “See you

leaving me

at the chaotic landscape of our practice session—the used

splattered sauce—and

left me with the mess again. I mutter a

a vengeance, scraping pans and

the moment of optimism when I had asked John to