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

throw it off.”

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

John? Are you crazy?”

following the

point was to make

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

I

the paprika and takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his frustration.

If you don’t

here?”

and I can’t look him in the eye. Because he’s right. Why is he

not Karl? My hands grip the

I finally say,

to

your problem,” he

perfect.”

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

asked him to be my sous chef for the

interested in having another.

the mood has shifted. I

just seems defeated.

sprinkles the paprika into the sauce and gives it a

both dip spoons into the sauce, tasting it simultaneously.

not what I wanted. None of this is what I wanted. I

for a while that Karl would wind up being

out horribly.

John

fine,” I half-agree,

lets out

nod and meet his annoyed

apron off and tosses it down

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

over to the door, but even as the

up his

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

reaches the door.

leaving

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

vegetables, the splattered

me with the mess again. I mutter a curse under my breath and start attacking the

vengeance, scraping pans and banging dishes

drift back to last week, the moment of optimism