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.”

biting my lip. “The recipe is already pretty

throw it off.”

being polite so as not to rock the boat,

John? Are you crazy?”

“We’re not following the recipe to the letter, are we?

point was to make it our

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

than I intend

down the paprika and takes a deep breath, visibly

If you don’t trust

here?”

heavy in the air, and I can’t look him in the eye. Because

not Karl? My hands grip the edge

that I don’t trust your judgment,” I finally say, my voice tinged

this to

exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,”

perfect.”

know,” I murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep myself

asked him to be my

and I’m not interested in having

the mood

just seems defeated.

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

the sauce, tasting it simultaneously. It’s…

what I wanted. None

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

out horribly.

to me,” John says gruffly, breaking

It’s fine,” I half-agree,

out another groan.

and meet his annoyed

and tosses it down on the

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

to the door, but even as the words leave my mouth,

up his

he says, his eyes meeting

door. “See you

then he’s gone, leaving me alone

wake, I glance around at the chaotic landscape of

splattered sauce—and

mess again. I mutter a curse under my breath and start

a vengeance, scraping pans and banging dishes into the

work, my thoughts drift back to last week, the moment of optimism when