Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0259

Chloe nods emphatically. “Leah is right. You can" let one setback define you. And you were amazing at the cook-off, despite the mishaps. You have a gift, Abby.”

I shrug, avoiding their gazes as I take a sip of my coffee. “Maybe. But right now, I really am enjoying the managerial work. It's less... chaotic. And I could use a little less chaos right now.”

"We just don't want to see you give up on something you're passionate about,” Chloe says, reaching for a croissant. “Not because of what happened or because of... Karl.”

The mention of his name like that makes my breath hitch. “I'm not giving up. I'm just exploring other parts of the business. And Karl has nothing to do with this decision.”

Leah gives me a sympathetic look. “You don't have to put on a brave face for us, Abby. We're your friends. We're allowed to worry about you.”

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. “I know,” I murmur, “and I love you both for it. But really, I'm happy with where things are right now.”

Chloe's gaze is piercing, and for a moment, I'm afraid she'll see right through me like she did two weeks ago.

But she simply nods. “If you're sure... But we're here for you, no matter what. And this doesn't mean the end of your culinary career. You could always come back to it when you're ready.”

I nod, gripping my coffee cup a little tighter. “Exactly,” I said. “I just need some time. That's all.”

It's well past noon, and I'm fully immersed in a towering stack of paperwork. Inventory, supply orders, performance reviews, invoicing, payroll... All of it. It's hellishly boring and tedious, but I've become used to it over the past few weeks.

Suddenly, however, there's a knock on my office door.

“Come in,” I call out without looking up, expecting one of the servers with a minor crisis that's easily solved from the confines of my desk.

But the door opens and instead, it's John who stands in front of me. “Abby, could you come and check on something in the kitchen?”

I feel the color drain from my face, my heartbeat quickening at the thought of crossing that threshold again. “I-I can't, John,” I murmur, gesturing to the piles of papers on my desk. “Sorry. I'm swamped right now.”

He frowns. “But it's about the braising technique for the short ribs—"

“I think Anton can handle that,” I cut in, maybe a little too quickly. “He's been doing a great job, don't you think?”

John's brows furrow ever so slightly, and I can tell he’s not convinced. “Um... Okay, sure,” he says, though his tone suggests that there's more he wants to say. “I'll ask Anton, then.”

The door closes behind him, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

This whole avoidance tactic is starting to wear thin, and I know it. I lean back in my chair, feeling guilty for my so-called crimes. A chef belongs in the kitchen, I know that; but right now, I don't feel much like a chef at all. Despite the hashtags, despite the support, I feel like a failure.

Shaking my head as if to dispel the thoughts, I return to my work. But I'm not working for long when another knock comes, sharp and urgent this time.

Annoyance instantly flares up in me as I picture John or Anton standing outside the door, poised to burst in here and drag me to the kitchen.

“I'm busy!" I call out, more harshly than I mean to.

But the door swings open regardless, and there he stands.

My eyes widen. “Mr. Thompson?”

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