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

throw it off.”

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

John? Are you crazy?”

the recipe

was to make it

‘our own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of

than I intend

takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein

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

here?”

the air, and I can’t look him in the eye. Because he’s right.

hands grip the edge of the counter, my

trust your judgment,” I finally say, my voice tinged with remorse. “It’s just that

this to

out an audibly exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,” he growls. “You want everything

perfect.”

I murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep

with John since I asked him to be my sous

I’m not interested in

up the spice jar again, but the mood

just seems defeated.

and gives it

into the sauce, tasting it

of flavor. But it’s just not what I wanted.

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

out horribly.

good to me,” John says gruffly,

I half-agree, setting

lets out another groan.

and meet his annoyed gaze. “Yeah. It’s

when John rips his apron off and tosses it

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

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

up

day,” he says, his eyes meeting mine

reaches the door. “See you

leaving me alone in the

chaotic landscape

vegetables, the splattered

the mess again. I mutter a curse under my

and banging dishes into the

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