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.”

my lip. “The recipe is already pretty balanced.

throw it off.”

so as not to rock the boat, but in reality,

John? Are you crazy?”

looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “We’re not following the recipe to the letter,

was to

own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of the dish,”

I intend

puts down the paprika and takes a deep breath, visibly trying

competition. If you don’t trust

here?”

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

My hands grip the edge of the counter, my

I finally say, my voice tinged with

this to

groan. “That’s your problem,” he

perfect.”

I know,” I murmur, looking down at the

asked him to

not interested in

mood has shifted. I

just seems defeated.

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

sauce, tasting it

I wanted. None of

for a while that Karl would wind up being my sous chef

out horribly.

me,” John says

I half-agree,

lets out another

his annoyed

off and tosses it down on

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

out as he storms over to the door, but even as the words leave my mouth,

made up his

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

the door. “See

gone, leaving me

the chaotic landscape of

vegetables, the splattered sauce—and my

mutter

pans and banging dishes into the

last week, the moment of