Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

#Chapter 66: Practice Makes Perfect

Abby

My office is silent as I scroll through the new emails that have landed in my inbox. My fingers drum on

the desk, anticipating the one email that I’ve been waiting for the most—the details of the upcoming

cooking competition.

And then, there it is, bolded and marked with high importance: Cook-Off Competition Details.

Taking a deep breath, I click on it.

The email is concise but packed with information. Attached to it is a long list, detailing every possible

dish that might come up during the competition.

My heart rate quickens as I scan the list. Some dishes I recognize, ones I’ve made a thousand times

over in my career, but others are unfamiliar, exotic even, presenting challenges I’ve never faced before.

I won’t know which three dishes I’ll be asked to prepare on the spot. Which means only one thing: I

have to practice all of them. Every single one.

Grabbing a notepad, I jot down a list of ingredients I’ll need for the more exotic dishes, then turn my

attention to the restaurant’s supplier portal, adding item after item to the shopping list. The ingredients

range from the ordinary to the obscure. Each addition of expensive truffles, caviar, and fresh scallops

makes my anxiety spi ke.

How can I perfect so many dishes in such a short time?

Once the orders are placed, I stretch and push back from the desk, glancing at the clock on the wall.

It’s getting late, but there’s no time to waste. Without a second thought, I pull my hair into a messy bun

and prepare to head to the kitchen to get started.

Before I can leave, however, a sudden page over the intercom draws me from my task.

“Abby, can you come up front for a moment? I need help with the register.” It’s Chloe, her voice

strained.

Closing my laptop with a sigh, I head to the bar where Chloe is standing. Frustration is evident on her

face as she fiddles with the register. “Hey, what’s going on?” I ask, striding up to her.

“It’s this damn thing,” she mutters, her fingers hovering over the register keys. “It’s been acting up all

evening.”

I step beside her and start navigating through the system. A few prodded buttons and adjusted settings

later, the machine whirrs back to life, responding as it should. Chloe releases a breath she’s seemingly

been holding.

“Thanks, Abby. I thought I’d have to do all the transactions manually.”

“No problem,” I reply, giving her a reassuring smile. “Anything else I can help with?”

She shakes her head. “No, that’s it. But…” She hesitates, her eyes flickering with an unspoken thought.

“Abby, about the other night… I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Especially not over Karl.”

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “Chloe, it’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” she insists, her eyes earnest. “I’m your best friend, Abby, and I’m just… I’m worried about

you. I don’t want to see you get hurt again, fall into another toxic relationship.”

Her words sting, echoing the fears I keep buried deep down, but I push them away, offering her a small

smile. “Chloe, I already married Karl once, remember? Learned my lesson the hard way. It’s not going

to happen again.”

“I know,” she says softly, “but it’s just… you deserve so much better, and I can’t stand the thought of

him hurting you again.”

I reach out, gently squeezing her hand. “I appreciate your concern, Chloe, but I’m not a teenager

anymore. I can make my own decisions, and I don’t need to be monitored or told what to do.”

Chloe holds my gaze for a beat, a mix of emotions swirling in her eyes, before she gives a slow,

reluctant nod. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft, before turning away.

But as I make my way back to my office, Chloe’s words reverberate in my head. A part of me is

warmed by her concern, but another part is frustrated. This entire situation, I realize, is like walking on

a tightrope, balancing between concern and independence, friendship and autonomy.

I don’t want this to strain my friendship with Chloe. Our bond means more to me than she knows.

But at the same time, I want—no, need—her to trust me, to trust my judgments and my decisions. I’m

not the same Abby who fell for Karl’s charms all those years ago, who got lost in a relationship that cost

me my self-worth and got my heart broken. I’ve grown, learned, and changed. Why can’t my friends

see that? Why does it feel as though all of my friends just see me as a fool who would so easily fall for

a guy that’s bad for me?

As I sink back down into my office chair, though, a thought comes to mind. A memory, rather. The

feeling of Karl’s hands on me, the taste of his l*ps. Our intimacy in the kitchen, which we haven’t

spoken about.

A mistake. A wonderful, horrible, delicious mistake. And it can’t happen again.

…

The kitchen has long since fallen quiet, with the last employees heading home for the night. I’m here

alone, standing in front of the gleaming counter with a pile of ingredients and a printed-out list of the

dishes in front of me. I’ll still need to wait on some of the more exotic dishes, but I can still practice the

ones I’m prepared for, like boeuf bourguignon and braised lamb.

Cracking my knuckles, I begin with the dishes I’m less familiar with, meticulously following the provided

recipes.

Hours blur as I whisk, chop, saute, and simmer. The delicious scents of lemongras s salmon, sweet

potato gnocchi, and green curry fill the kitchen and my senses, leaving me feeling like I’m in a state of

flow. At times, I get lost in the rhythm, each movement meditative, until a dish doesn’t come out right

and I’m yanked back to the urgency of the task.

As I finish up a particularly difficult dish involving thinly sliced veal, my back starts to ache. My fingers

are covered in nicks at this point, but I keep going, even though it’s midnight.

Dishes pile up as the night wears on. The restaurant’s large clocks seem to tick louder, echoing in the

expansive kitchen. With each passing hour, my feet grow wearier, and my eyelids heavier.

Suddenly, the kitchen doors swing open, the sudden intrusion of footsteps and a draft of cooler air

startles me. I turn, knife still in hand, to see Karl stepping in, his eyes wide with surprise.

He stops in his tracks, taking in the scene—the counters littered with a myriad of ingredients, the

stovetop lit up with multiple burners turned on, and me, standing in the midst of it all, probably looking

like a food-obsessed zombie.

“Karl?” I croak out, realizing now that my voice is froggy from exhaustion and not speaking for hours on

end. “What are you doing here?”

Karl pauses, looking around at the mess around me. He doesn’t know about the competition—I didn’t

plan on telling him just yet, especially not since I promised to go to the Alpha party with him. But now, it

seems as though I’ll have no choice.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says quietly. “What’s going on?”