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.”

my lip. “The

throw it off.”

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

John? Are you crazy?”

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

was to make it

own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of the dish,”

than I intend

down the paprika and takes a deep breath,

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

here?”

air, and I can’t look

Karl? My hands grip the

I finally say, my

this to be

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

perfect.”

at

to be my sous chef for the competition

interested in having another. “Let’s try

mood has shifted. I expected him to seem satisfied,

just seems defeated.

and gives it a stir. “There. Let’s see how

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

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

for a while that Karl would wind up being my sous chef

out horribly.

to me,” John says gruffly, breaking

I half-agree, setting

out another groan.

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

tosses it down on the counter.

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

John—” I call out as he storms over to the door, but even as

up

eyes meeting mine for a moment over

reaches the door. “See you

leaving me alone in

his wake, I glance around at the chaotic landscape

vegetables, the splattered sauce—and my heart

mess again. I mutter

and banging

week, the moment of optimism when I