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.”

I say, biting my lip. “The recipe is already pretty balanced. Adding

throw it off.”

to rock the boat, but in reality, I’m thinking to

John? Are you crazy?”

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

was to

ruining the integrity of the dish,” I retort, a

than I intend

deep breath, visibly trying to rein

chef for this competition. If you don’t trust my judgment, then why

here?”

I can’t look him in the eye. Because he’s

My hands grip the edge of the counter,

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

this to be

audibly exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,”

perfect.”

at the dough, trying to keep myself composed.

to be my

and I’m not interested in having another. “Let’s try

again, but the mood has shifted. I expected him to seem

just seems defeated.

paprika into the sauce and gives

sauce, tasting

of flavor. But it’s just not what I wanted. None of this is what I wanted. I had

Karl would wind up being

out horribly.

to me,” John says gruffly,

I half-agree, setting my spoon

out another

his annoyed gaze. “Yeah. It’s fine,

tosses it down on the counter. “Whatever, Abby,”

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

he storms over to the door, but

up

his eyes meeting mine for a

the door. “See you

he’s gone, leaving me alone in the

wake, I glance around at the chaotic landscape of our practice session—the

the splattered sauce—and

me with the mess again. I mutter a curse

pans and banging

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