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.”

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

throw it off.”

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

John? Are you crazy?”

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

point was to

the integrity of

I

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

be your sous chef for this competition. If

here?”

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

hands grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning

your judgment,” I finally

this to

“That’s your problem,”

perfect.”

down at the dough,

since I asked him to be

not interested in

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

just seems defeated.

the sauce and gives it

dip spoons into the sauce, tasting

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

wind up being

out horribly.

me,” John says gruffly, breaking the

fine,” I half-agree, setting my spoon

out

meet his annoyed gaze. “Yeah. It’s fine,

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

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

out as he storms over to the door,

up

eyes meeting mine for a moment

the door. “See

he’s gone, leaving me alone in the

the chaotic

vegetables, the splattered

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

pans and banging dishes

my thoughts drift back to last week, the moment of optimism