Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

#Chapter 94: Sous Chef Struggles

Abby

The restaurant has long since closed, but the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic still lingers in the air.

The sound of sizzling oil on the stove and the faint melody of a song that I don’t like wafting from a

speaker in the corner mix together to create a tense symphony that I absolutely don’t need to be

hearing right now.

I’m stressed, to say the least. Really stressed.

John stands next to me, his eyes focused as he skillfully dices tomatoes. His posture is rigid, the

tension between us as palpable as the texture of the dough I’m kneading for our homemade pasta.

“How’s the dough coming along?” he asks, throwing a quick glance my way.

“It’s fine. Just needs a bit more kneading,” I reply, my palms pushing and folding as I get lost in the

repetitive motion.

John grunts in acknowledgment and moves on to chop basil. There’s an air of seriousness around him,

an unwavering concentration that should make me feel reassured.

And yet, it doesn’t.

Instead, I’m hyper-aware of the disconnect, the invisible yet unignorable gap between us. It feels like

we’re reading from different recipes, never quite aligning.

“Could you pass me the olive oil?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a moment, but there’s none of the warmth or understanding

that I used to feel when Karl and I worked side by side in the kitchen.

I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but with Karl, it was natural to work together. Sure, we had our

moments, but we worked well together. I like John and he’s a good cook, but we just don’t have that

same chemistry in the kitchen. What should feel effortless instead feels like a chore.

John drizzles the oil over the tomatoes, then hesitates, looking at the array of spices laid out in front of

him. “I think a touch of paprika would give the sauce a nice kick.”

“I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip. “The recipe is already pretty balanced. Adding more spices might

throw it off.”

I’m being polite so as not to rock the boat, but in reality, I’m thinking to myself: “Paprika? Seriously,

John? Are you crazy?”

He looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “We’re not following the recipe to the letter, are we? I thought the

whole point was to make it our own.”

“Yes, but making it ‘our own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of the dish,” I retort, a little more

sharply than I intend to.

John puts down the paprika and takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his frustration. “Abby, you

asked me to be your sous chef for this competition. If you don’t trust my judgment, then why am I even

here?”

The words hang heavy in the air, and I can’t look him in the eye. Because he’s right. Why is he here?

Why is he not Karl? My hands grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white.

“John, it’s not that I don’t trust your judgment,” I finally say, my voice tinged with remorse. “It’s just that I

want this to be perfect.”

He lets out an audibly exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,” he growls. “You want everything to be

perfect.”

“I know, I know,” I murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep myself composed. I’ve already

had countless arguments with John since I asked him to be my sous chef for the competition a week

ago and I’m not interested in having another. “Let’s try the paprika.”

John picks up the spice jar again, but the mood has shifted. I expected him to seem satisfied, but he

just seems defeated.

He sprinkles the paprika into the sauce and gives it a stir. “There. Let’s see how this tastes.”

We both dip spoons into the sauce, tasting it simultaneously. It’s… alright. The paprika adds an

unexpected depth of flavor. But it’s just not what I wanted. None of this is what I wanted. I had really

thought for a while that Karl would wind up being my sous chef for the competition, but that had turned

out horribly.

“Tastes good to me,” John says gruffly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah. It’s fine,” I half-agree, setting my spoon down.

John lets out another groan. “Fine?”

I nod and meet his annoyed gaze. “Yeah. It’s fine, John.”

That’s when John rips his apron off and tosses it down on the counter. “Whatever, Abby,” he groans.

“I’m going home. Goodnight.”

“Wait, John—” I call out as he storms over to the door, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know

he’s made up his mind.

“I’ve had enough for one day,” he says, his eyes meeting mine for a moment over his shoulder before

he reaches the door. “See you tomorrow.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

In his wake, I glance around at the chaotic landscape of our practice session—the used utensils, the

half-chopped vegetables, the splattered sauce—and my heart sinks.

John has left me with the mess again. I mutter a curse under my breath and start attacking the kitchen

with a vengeance, scraping pans and banging dishes into the sink.

As I work, my thoughts drift back to last week, the moment of optimism when I had asked John to join

me for this competition.

The staff had decided to stay at the bar for a while after closing to celebrate someone’s birthday, and

John and I were sitting beside each other, chatting.

“Hey John,” I’d said, my finger running around the rim of my glass. “So, the cook-off is coming up, and I

could really use a sous chef. Would you be interested?”

His eyes had lit up faster than I expected. “Really? You want me?”

“Yeah.” I smiled, suddenly relieved. “I think we could make a great team.” This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

“Absolutely. I’m in,” he had answered, clinking his beer bottle against my wine glass. “This is going to

be amazing, Abby.”

I snap back to the present, staring at a greasy pan that’s proving to be a challenge. Amazing? Yeah,

right. More like a disaster waiting to happen. I scrub harder, as if I can erase the tension of the last few

days with enough elbow grease.

John’s enthusiasm was short-lived, and it’s only been a week and yet I already don’t know what I’m

gonna do. He seems to resent the extra hours, the hard work, the relentless pursuit of something

extraordinary.

I can’t reconcile the John from that night at the bar with the man who just walked out on me. And that

terrifies me. How can we go on national television like this? How can I trust that we won’t blow up on

each other on live TV? We’re supposed to be a team, and yet every day feels like a battle.

I rinse the last dish and place it on the drying rack, my reflection staring back at me in the dim light of

the kitchen.

Karl would have never left me like this, I think, and then immediately hate myself for it. I can’t afford to

dwell on a past that’s not coming back. Karl chose his path, and now I have to choose mine. But does it

include John? Can I trust him to stand beside me when the pressure really mounts?

I let out a sigh as I look around at the mess, half-wondering if I should just go home now and clean up

in the morning. But then, suddenly, an all-too-familiar voice cuts through my train of thought.

“Need a hand?”