Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0281

"Okay, I'll... get ready then. You'll be okay out here?”

Karl waves a hand dismissively. “Go ahead. You got a mirror somewhere so I can get to work on..." He gestures to himself, to his tousled hair, his white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “...This?"

I nod and point to the hallway. “There's a full-length mirror over there. Good luck.”

He grins. “Same to you.”

The steam curls around me and smooths away my tense muscles. It's funny how I never realize how badly I need a hot shower until I'm finally in it, and now I don’t want to get out. But once my body is washed and my hair is shampooed, I don't have much more time. With a reluctant sigh, I finally turn off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around me.

First, I get started on my hair. The sound of the blowdryer fills the bathroom as I get to work, running a brush through it until it's all dry. Then, I pull it back into a neat bun that sits at the nape of my neck. Have to make sure no hairs get in the food, so I slick it down with a tiny bit of gel, both to make it look sleek and keep it in place.

Next, I slip into my chef's whites, which I had professionally cleaned just for today. They're a bit too crisp against my skin, but they look nice. I slip into a pair of comfortable loafers, then glance in the mirror.

Looks good. Now, makeup.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, and that's when the memories of the cook-off return. The thick foundation, the dramatic eyes, and lips painted a bright shade of red. False lashes, too, which I remember being horribly uncomfortable when I cried.

My hand freezes as I'm about to reach into my makeup bag for my foundation.

Do I want this? To cake my face, to place the focus of tonight on my appearance rather than my abilities and my professionalism? To feel uncomfortable, like I'm wearing a mask?

Or do I just want to be me? Abby. The chef, the restaurant owner, the woman with smile lines and a tiny hint of crow’s feet beginning to show at the corners of my eyes. The woman who has been dragged through hell and back for her craft.

A woman. Not a doll.

I shake my head and zip my makeup bag shut. I choose the latter when it comes to my cooking. Tonight isnt about a perfect face or long lashes. It's about cooking the best damn meal those judges have ever tasted. And I don't need lipstick to do that.

As I step out of my room, the air suddenly feels a few degrees cooler. Karl meets my gaze, and for a moment, time seems to stop.

He's standing in the living room, his hands in his pockets. He's ditched his tuxedo jacket and tie, opting instead for just his crisp white shirt. He smoothed it down and rolled the sleeves more neatly, and although he’s not in chef's whites like me, he looks good

Really good.

He looks at me, longer than perhaps either of us expect, and when his smile widens, it's as if he's sharing a secret joke between old friends.

"You look perfect in your chef's coat, Abby,” he says, and his voice is soft.

I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks, but I don't bother to hide the tinge of red that begins to spread across my face.

“Thank you, Karl,” I manage, voice steady even though my heart is pounding a mile a minute in my chest. “You look perfect, too.”

We look at each other for a moment longer, the silence only punctuated by the sound of soft jazz music playing on the speakers—he must have picked it out while I was in the shower, and it's a nice touch.

And then, like clockwork the moment the hour hand meets 7:00, it happens.

The doorbell rings. The judges have arrived.

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