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.”

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

John? Are you crazy?”

eyebrows furrowed. “We’re not following the recipe to the letter, are we? I thought

point was to make it

mean ruining the integrity of the dish,”

than I intend

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

for this competition. If you don’t trust

here?”

can’t look him in the eye. Because

hands grip the edge of

that I don’t trust your judgment,” I finally say,

to be

“That’s your problem,” he growls.

perfect.”

at the

him to be my sous chef for the

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

picks up the spice jar again, but the mood has shifted. I expected him

just seems defeated.

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

spoons into the sauce, tasting it simultaneously. It’s…

wanted. None of this is what I wanted. I had

up being my sous chef for the competition, but

out horribly.

John says

It’s fine,” I half-agree, setting my spoon

out another

meet his annoyed gaze. “Yeah.

when John rips his apron off and tosses it down on the counter. “Whatever, Abby,” he

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

storms over to the door, but

made up

day,” he says, his eyes meeting mine

reaches the door. “See

then he’s gone, leaving me alone in

the chaotic landscape of our

the splattered sauce—and my

with the mess again. I mutter a curse

vengeance, scraping pans and banging

last week, the moment of optimism when I had asked