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.”

“The

throw it off.”

to rock the boat, but in reality, I’m thinking to myself: “Paprika?

John? Are you crazy?”

the

to make it

‘our own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the

than I intend

and takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his frustration. “Abby,

me to be your sous chef for this competition. If you don’t

here?”

in the air, and I can’t look him

My hands grip the edge of

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

to be

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

perfect.”

murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep

since I asked him to be

in having

spice jar again, but the mood has shifted. I

just seems defeated.

sprinkles the paprika into the sauce and gives it a stir.

dip spoons into the sauce, tasting it

I wanted.

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

out horribly.

John says gruffly, breaking the

I half-agree,

lets out another groan.

nod and meet his annoyed

tosses it down on the

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

the door, but even as

made up

eyes meeting mine for a moment over his

the door.

then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the

glance around at the chaotic landscape of

vegetables, the splattered

I mutter a curse under my breath

pans and banging dishes into the

drift back to last week, the moment of optimism when I