Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 227

Abby

We exit hair and makeup, and I can’t help but feel like an impostor beneath this

mask of perfectly-caked makeup. Just like yesterday, it feels like an

uncomfortable facade, a porcelain mask covering the real Abby. I can’t help but

wonder to myself: why is this amount of makeup necessary for a cooking show?

Shouldn’t my abilities be judged, not my face?

I glance over at Karl as we walk out of the hair and makeup room. He’s still

wearing his blue surgical mask, but the makeup that I can see on his face is

much lighter than mine.

“Geez, Abby,” he says as he looks at me. “You like like a…”

Enter title…

“Don’t,” I hiss. I don’t want to think about it, not now. Instead, I focus my

attention on my chef’s jacket. The fabric is stiff and a little itchy from the

starching they put it through to look ‘camera-perfect’, much unlike my own

uniform, which is comfortably worn down after years of use.

“Need help with that?” Karl offers, his own jacket already perfectly buttoned.

“No, I’ve got it,” I snap, my nerves fraying. But after another failed attempt, I

relent. “Okay, maybe I don’t ‘got it’. Please help.”

Karl moves to button my jacket with a precision that borders on surgical.

“There,” he says, stepping back to examine his handiwork. “Perfect.”

But I don’t feel perfect; I feel like I’m about to come apart at the seams.

“Three minutes!” a production assistant yells from down the hall, waving a

cl*pboard frantically.

Three minutes. The weight of the entire morning—the mad dash, the almost-car

crash, the last-minute change in sous chefs—crashes down on me.

My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding, this damn makeup is too thick

and cakey, and this stupid uniform is too stiff and itchy. I feel like a prisoner in

my own b*dy right now.

“I can’t do this, Karl,” I say, my voice quivering. “I’m not ready. I didn’t even get

to familiarize myself with my station yet like everyone else. How am I supposed

to compete?”

“Abby, look at me,” Karl says, taking my trembling hands into his. His grip is firm,

grounding.

I look up, and even with the mask, I can feel the intensity of his gaze, willing me

to listen. “You’re one of the most—no, you’re the most—dedicated, passionate

people I know. You’ve been through so much already just to get here, Abby. You

can do this.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I shoot back, pulling my hands away. “You’re not the

one whose career is on the line. If I fail today, it might destroy my restaurant’s

reputation.”

“You’re right, I’m not,” he says gently. “But I know what it’s like to have

everything riding on one moment. Trust me.”

“How? How can I trust everything will be fine when the whole morning has been

a complete disaster?”

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