Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 109

Abby

“Let me help you.”

Karl’s words hit me like a ton of bricks. Karl, of all people, wants to help me prepare for the competition

that we were only just arguing about? I can’t believe it.

“You’re joking,” I murmur.

Karl shakes his head, his eyes darting down to the failure of a souffle sitting between us. “Nope. Not

joking. Do you want my help or not?”

Part of me wants to accept his offer, but another part of me, perhaps the more logical part, decides that

maybe it’s not the best idea. I’m angry right now over my argument with Karl and this da mned souffle,

and I know that I wouldn’t exactly be the best kitchen partner tonight.

“I’m fine, Karl. Just a little tired,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Besides, you’ve been working all day. You can

head home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” he says quietly, sliding the souffle back toward me from across the cold

metallic counter. “I’m not tired, and home is boring. Let me help.”

I pause. I know that I should push him away and keep working on my own, not only so I can focus fully

on my preparations for the competition but also so we can both cool off after our arguments. But

something stops me. Maybe it’s the sincere look in his soft brown eyes.

“Sure,” I finally mutter, nodding. “I guess I could use some help.”

Karl doesn’t need to be told twice. I watch for a moment as he sl*ps off his jacket, revealing his sinewy

biceps peeking out from beneath his short sleeves. I have to look away before I get too attached to his

image, and refocus my attention on my fourth attempt at making a souffle while he washes his hands.

Before I know it, the eggs and other ingredients are laid out before me, my whisk deftly beating the

eggs into a golden mixture.

“You know, I used to make souffles as a kid,” Karl says out of nowhere.

“You made souffles?” I can’t even begin to keep the surprise out of my voice. Karl rarely ever cooked

when we were together, and he certainly never brought it up to me. “You never mentioned that when

we were together.”

“My mom used to make them all the time when I was little. It was my favorite dessert. She eventually

taught me how to make the best souffles ever,” he confesses, almost shyly. “Would you like me to whip

one up?”

My curiosity gets the better of me. “Sure. I’d love to see you try.”

Karl sets to work, skillfully separating the egg yolks from the whites, stirring the flour and butter, and

then folding everything in with care. I watch in amazement; the man has finesse, and it’s clear this isn’t

his first time at the souffle rodeo.

The oven dings, and Karl retrieves the dish, setting it on the counter. The souffle has risen perfectly, its

golden top a promise of the fluffy, airy delicacy beneath.

He dips a spoon into it and extends it toward me. “Taste.”

I accept the spoonful, the flavors bursting in my mouth—cheesy, eggy, and utterly perfect. The use of

Parmigiano Reggiano cheese gives the souffle a savory ta ng, but Karl incorporated just the right

amount of sugar so that the two opposite flavors meld together into a symphony of deliciousness.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, all the tension, the arguments, they vanish. There’s just the two of

us, and the culinary creation between us.

“Thank you, Karl. This is amazing,” I finally manage, breaking the spell and turning away.

“It was nothing. I was glad to help.”

As I walk back to my apartment later that night, a stray thought enters my mind.

Could Karl be the sous chef I need for the competition? He’s been getting better, and he knows how to

handle himself in a kitchen. And, even though we have our moments, we also know each other well; I

know for a fact that we could function together as a well-oiled machine under pressure.