Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0308

Abby

I take a deep breath as the Alpha party begins, the buzz of excitement and chatter filling the air. It's finally here, the culmination of months of hard work and preparation. I couldn't be more excited— and I also couldn't be more terrified.

"Abby, the first orders are coming in,” John calls out, a bead of sweat glistening on his brow as he stands over the grill.

I nod in acknowledgment and grab the first order ticket: frutti di mare. An easy one, because all of the ingredients were prepped ahead of time. I just need to throw it together on the stove and then it's done.

But it doesn't stay easy for long. Before I know it, the kitchen is rapidly turning into a warzone. The orders are flying in faster than a dinner rush on a Saturday night, and the hors d'oeuvres that we prepared earlier need to be restocked.

I hate to say it, but I didn't expect the food to be this much of a success. I feel like if I don't watch it, Ill drown.

“Two steaks coming up, one medium rare and one medium,” John says. “Abby, how are the potatoes coming along?”

I glance at the pan of potatoes cooking in the oven. “Almost done. Another minute.”

Anton, our resident pastry chef for tonight, is busy at the dessert station, meticulously assembling the tiramisu. He's a perfectionist when it comes to his desserts, and it shows in the intricate layers he creates.

In fact, it appears as though his perfection isn't going unnoticed at the Alpha party.

"Abby, the tiramisu is a huge hit out there,” Chloe calls out as she bursts through the door, her excitement palpable. “People are raving about it!”

“That's fantastic! You hear that, Anton? Your tiramisu is a hit!"

“Merde,” Anton huffs as he wipes his brow with the back of his wrist. “I can hardly keep up. Who knew!”

I let out a soft sigh and turn to Chloe. “Chloe, try to push a different dessert for a little bit. Recommend the peach cobbler instead.”

Chloe nods, but I can see the worry in her eyes. “I'll try,” she says, “but people are seeing other people eating it and they're getting FOMO. I can only do so much.”

“Well, just try your best,” I encourage. “If they want the tiramisu, just tell them that it's on backorder and might take an extra couple of minutes.”

With another nod, Chloe disappears from the kitchen. I pull the potatoes out of the oven and toss them onto the same two plates that John is placing the steaks on, adding a sprinkle of parmesan and some rosemary before they're ready.

“Anton,” I call out, “are you sure you're okay over there? Need a switch?”

Anton pauses for a moment, then nods. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem.” Without a second thought, I jog around the line and switch spots with Anton. It's a bit of a relief to get away from the heat of the stove anyway.

As Anton and John start working on the next wave of dishes, I quickly gather the ingredients we need for another batch of tiramisu. Ladyfingers, mascarpone cheese, espresso, cocoa powder. Before I know it, I'm lost in a world of layers and sweetness.

But just as I'm settling into my new groove and the entree orders seem to be dying down, chaos erupts. Daisy rushes into the kitchen, her face flushed with concern.

"Abby, we've got a problem,” she says, her voice quivering. I've seen this look before—the tears in her eyes, the way her lower lip is shaking. She's about to cry.

I pause mid-step, my heart racing. “What's wrong?”

Daisy holds up the tray in her hand, where several dessert plates lay in disarray. At first glance, it just looks like half-eaten food—but on closer inspection, I can see that it's not that at all

Someone smashed the cakes in. The tiramisu Anton so painstakingly made sits in a mess on each plate, uneaten but smashes to oblivion.

“These are from the dessert table,” Daisy says. “I found them like this. Someone did it and then left them there.”

My jaw tightens, and I can feel a mix of anger and frustration bubbling up within me. Who would smash the cakes on the dessert table? That's not fair to the other guests, and it's certainly not fair to us.

“Do you have any idea who did it?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

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