Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0268

Abby

The phone rings for a beat too long. My heart is practically in my throat as I wait, each drone of the ringtone sounding like a warning siren in my ears.

What will I even say to him? “Hey, sorry I kissed you and then told you it was a mistake for the millionth time. Anyway, will you come back to help me again?”

I shake my head as if to dispel the thought. No. I just want to tell him that I might be catering the Alpha party after all—and that his innocence was proven when it came to the fight with Daniel's sous chef. But what if he already knows? Or what if he doesn't care?

Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Because he doesn't answer.

The pang in my chest is sharp as I hear the sound of his voicemail message come through the phone. “You've reached Karl. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”

I hang up before the tone plays, a curse lingering on my lips as I toss my phone down on the counter. Of course he wouldn't answer. Why would he want to talk to me? I'm just Abby, his ex-wife, the woman who took advantage of him when he was just trying to win me back.

Right?

I push away from the counter and start to pull out pots and pans, the clanging noise a welcome distraction. The judges won't care about my personal life; they'll care about what I put on the plate. It has to be perfect. I can't let this second chance go to shit.

"Okay, Abby,” I mutter to myself, scanning my scrawled notes. "Appetizer, entree, dessert. Simple.” Simple, I say, but it's anything but that. Each dish needs to be perfect. Every flavor needs to complement the others. Every texture has to be out of this world. And I can't show even a moment's hesitation while I'm cooking in front of them. I need to be the perfect picture of the perfect chef. My mind buzzes with ideas, but my brain is still foggy after spending two weeks in a rut. “Soup... French onion?” I mutter to myself, then shake my head. “No, too overpowering. Minestrone... No, too bland...”

I sigh, passing my hand over my face. “Okay... I'll try the main course first,” I say out loud, even though I'm alone in my own kitchen at home. “That'll make it easier to pick the appetizer and dessert.”

Onto the main course. My hands move on their own, prepping for a dish I've that I know better than the back of my own hand. Trout meuniere. It should be simple, the perfect dish when you're looking for a light and flavorful meal. Plus, I've made it countless times. It's exactly what I need right now. But as I begin the process of cooking the trout, it's like my mind freezes. The spices all seem to jumble together, the lemon juice feels too sticky on my fingers, the trout smells... off. My fingers feel clumsy and stupid as I try to whisk the sauce together, and my mind keeps drifting.

Drifting to him.

"God, Abby," I say out loud, throwing my whisk down into the sink with a clatter. “Focus. Stop thinking about Karl.”

Easier said than done, though. His face keeps floating through my mind, the way his eyes were so full of pain when I pushed him away. It was three weeks ago now, but it feels like it was just yesterday.

My fingers itch to call him again. Maybe he was just busy. Maybe he didn't see my call.

But I can't, because I think I know the truth: he doesn't want to talk.

I shake my head again and decide to throw myself back into my cooking. That's all I can do right now, what I've always done. Cook. Even if it takes all night, I'll cook this damn trout meuniere. And it'll be the most goddamn delicious trout meuniere I've even tasted.

I work through the afternoon, the sunlight shifting across the kitchen tiles and casting long shadows over the counters. I taste, adjust, and taste again, making sure that each flavor and texture complements the others. It's precise work, but it's something I can lose myself in.

By the time I'm done, the kitchen looks like a mess, but the samples of my menu sit pristine and inviting on the counter.

And across from them, in my mind's eye, sits Karl. And his eyes are full of pain.

The door to the kitchen feels like concrete wall. No, more than that; it's like there's some invisible entity standing in the way, pushing me further and further back to my office, screaming in my ears... telling me that I don't belong here anymore.

Even as the servers bustle in and out and the door swings invitingly on its hinges, it feels like a trap. And I'm a mouse that's caught, frozen in fear.

I've been standing in the narrow hallway that leads to the restaurant kitchen for what feels like an eternity, my heart pounding so hard I think it might just beat straight out of my chest. The kitchen— the space that was once almost sacred to me, like a sanctuary amidst a battleground—feels like foreign territory now.

I know I should go in. I need to refamiliarize myself with my kitchen, because it just two days, I'll be preparing a three-course meal for the judges in that very space. And yet, I just can't do it.

"Abby? What are you going?” Ethan's voice breaks through my reverie. I turn, plastering a false smile on my face, and shrug.

“I'm... just thinking,” I lie, because “paralyzed by an irrational fear of my own kitchen’ isn't something you tell one of your own employees.

Ethan crosses his arms, his gaze burning straight through me. “Thinking? You've been hovering around the door all morning. What are you thinking about, exactly?”

I want to tell him that I've been terrified, terrified of my own damn kitchen after losing the cook-off. "Okay, fine. I want to go in,” I confess. “I want to cook. But I'm... scared.”

Ethan's eyes soften, and he drops his arms back to his sides. “Scared of what, Abby?”

I swallow, finding my throat dry. “Of failing. Of freezing up again. Of... I don't know. Everything.”

He sighs, and before I can react, Daisy appears beside him, her expression full of mischief. “Abby, you're being ridiculous,” she states

“I'm not ridiculous,” I counted.

“It is,” Ethan and Daisy say almost at the same time, and then, with a look exchanged between them, they each grab one of my arms

"Hey!" I protest, but it's weak, drowned out by the sounds of the restaurant.

“Enough, Abby,” Daisy scolds as they propel me forward. “You're letting your head get in the way of your heart. And your heart belongs in the kitchen.”

There's a gentleness in Daisy's voice that somehow balances out the force with which they're pushing me forward. For a moment I'm taken off guard, and then, during that moment, I'm shoved into the kitchen before I have a chance to react.

The kitchen falls silent.

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