Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Abby

Applause begins to ripple across the studio audience, but all I see is Karl, sitting

in the back, staring down at me. He’s wearing a blue surgical mask, but I know

it’s him. I can tell by his eyes, by the way that my wolf stirs ever so slightly just

from looking at him.

“Wow, Abby,” Sarah says, drawing me back to the present, back to the interview.

“That was lovely. Your staff must be really grateful to have you.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m lucky to have them.”

“Well, that’s all, folks,” Sarah says, turning back to face the crowd. “Everyone

give a big round of applause for Abby, the owner of La Belle Vie Bistro!”

Enter title…

Another wave of applause washes over the room, smattered with a few cheers.

The cameraman gives me my cue, and I stand, waving as I jog off stage. Once

backstage, the assistant from before gives me a nod and a thumbs-up, then

points for me to head back to the greenroom.

As I head down the hall to the greenroom, I feel like I’m floating on air. So that

was it; that was the interview. I did it!

The greenroom is a modest room, furnished with a couple of sofas, a coffee

table littered with fashion magazines, and a snack bar.

The walls are adorned with photos of previous guests who came on the show,

from famous musicians to local artists. There’s a bathroom in the back, and

feeling like I’ll be sick now from the nerves of it all, I head to the bathroom to

water on my

and let out a sigh, knowing that this is just one step

headed to the cook-off, and that will be an

beast. I feel as though the real fight

splash some cool water on my face to calm

makeup still jars me, but I can still see

of amazing

moments, I’m about to head back out to grab my things

in the other room,

this is a serious competition.

and I can’t afford to be distracted by—by

the voice instantly: Daniel. My ears

of accomplished chefs, who could she possibly be

eavesdrop, but

complete non-factor. No, seriously, have you

pause, as though he’s listening to someone, likely over the

feels like it’s about to pound out of my chest as

with no

silly little homemaker who can barely

food without the help of her male chefs—one of whom

homeless man!”

gets thick; his words are a punch to the

I am, in a field dominated by men, and being beaten down once

but the essence

background, is part of

‘dirty homeless man,’ as he so

gifted chefs I’ve

his voice fading. “I’m not

in the slightest…”

voice fades away. I can hear his

nothing. Only then do

with shaking hands, letting out a shuddering

out of the

it’s empty, feels like

I can still hear Daniel’s

an awful, haunting

Fangirl. Amateur. Homemaker. Silly.

heart feels like it’s dropping into my stomach. How can a fellow chef