Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 102

Abby

“Okay, John, pass me the truffle oil,” I call out, my focus entirely on the pan in front of me.

“Got it,” John replies, handing me the small, dark bottle.

The kitchen is close to closing time, and John and I have been spending every free moment today trying to get this recipe right. We don’t have the truffles, but I’ve settled on some substitutions, figuring that it’ll be better to at least get practice on the dish rather than nothing at all.

I drizzle a few drops over the mafaldine, my eyes narrowing as I try to capture the elusive essence of the dish in my mind. “It has to be perfect. The competition won't allow any room for error.”

John smiles, a flash of warmth in his eyes. “You’re doing great, Abby. We’ve got this.”

But as I stir the pasta, incorporating the oil into the sauce, I know something isn’t right. It’s good, but it’s not perfect. The aroma of the truffles fills the air, but it’s missing that rich, deep scent, the kind that lingers on your tongue and in your nostrils.

Still, that doesn’t mean that it’s a total failure.

I toss in the sauteed mushrooms, watching as they combine with the mafaldine. “Okay, let’s plate this and give it a taste.”

John hands me two white plates, and I spoon generous portions onto each, taking care to get the presentation just right in preparation for the cook-off. We sit down at the makeshift tasting table, and I watch as John takes his first bite.

His eyes light up, but not with the brilliance I had hoped for.

“It’s… good,” he says cautiously. “Really good.”

I pick up my fork and take a mouthful, letting the flavors play across my taste buds. “But it’s not perfect,” I say, setting down my fork with a sigh.

John meets my eyes, concern etched into his features. “What’s missing? What do we need to make it perfect?”

I shake my head, frustration building. “It’s the truffles, John. These truffles just don’t have the intensity, the depth that black truffles have. Without the right truffles, we can’t get the flavor of the truffle butter just right.”

“Could we try a different brand? Maybe it’s the supplier?” John suggests.

I shake my head, exasperated. “I’ve tried three different suppliers already. Unless a miracle happens, I don’t see how we can get our hands on European black truffles in time.”

John’s eyes meet mine, unwavering. “Then we’ll have to just keep practicing with what we have. We’ll make it as perfect as it can be. And when the time comes, you’ll be ready for the cook-off.”

His words are meant to comfort me, but all they do is make me even more frustrated. How can I be ready when the missing element to this dish is what is supposed to make it so unique?

I stand abruptly, my towel clenched in my hand. “I think I need to take a break,” I mutter, tossing the towel onto the counter.

John watches me, concern evident on his face, but he doesn’t push. “Take all the time you need. We’ve made good progress today, even if it’s not perfect.”

I can’t help but glance at the clock. “The competition is in two weeks, John. Two weeks. What kind of progress can I make in that time?”

“Abby, two weeks is practically a lifetime in the kitchen,” John says, rising to his feet and walking over to me. “And this competition is about more than just one dish. Hell, you don’t even know if they’ll pick this dish.”

“But that’s the thing,” I retort, feeling my frustration mounting even further. “I don’t know if they’ll pick this dish, but I want to make sure that I can be prepared if they do.”

John looks at me for a moment, his features softened slightly. I think both of us can tell that it’s not just about being prepared; it’s about proving something, not just to myself, but to the world. That I, Abby, the ex-Luna, can get things right, despite the obstacles in my way. That I, as a female chef and restaurant owner, won’t let anything get in my way.

“You know,” I chuckle, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, “when I first went to culinary school, I thought I would be facing all of these obstacles. Older men not taking me seriously, financial issues, critics.”

“And you have faced all of that and then some,” John teases.

I nod. “Yes. But now, it’s…”

“Truffles.”

Another chuckle escapes my lips. “Yep. Truffles.”

…

The sizzle of the grill, the clinking of glasses from the bar, and the incessant ring of the phone in the background merge into one big cacophony, making my head spin.

I’m metaphorically knee-deep in murky water, mentally ticking off a never-ending list of things that need to get done, and Karl is nowhere to be found.

“Abby, the Rosé keg just tapped out,” shouts Ethan from the front, his soft voice barely audible over the din.

“Dammit,” I mutter, throwing down my order pad and darting behind the bar to switch the kegs. Chloe would’ve handled this if she hadn’t walked out on me. So much for that.

As I’m securing the new keg, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from the front-of-house staff: “Table 5 is demanding to see the manager. Again.”

“Great. Just great,” I grumble as I wash my hands and hustle over to Table 5. I paste on my most customer-service-friendly smile. “Is everything all right here?”

“Not really,” says a middle-aged woman, glaring at her pasta as if it had personally insulted her. “This is the worst linguine I’ve ever had. It’s dry and there’s too much cilantro.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m so sorry you're not enjoying your meal. Can I offer you something else?”

The woman huffs. “I want this taken off the bill.”

“Of course,” I reply through clenched teeth. “Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

I rush back to the kitchen, my patience wearing thin. “John, we need to remake a linguine. Customer complaint.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Where the hell is Karl, anyway? I need help.”

I glance at the clock. It’s nearing the end of the dinner rush, and I still haven’t heard from Karl. I pull out my phone and dial his number for the umpteenth time today.

Straight to voicemail. Again.

He was supposed to show up today, but he bailed. No call, no show. Just an empty spot where he belongs, and the rest of us are scrambling to make it work, on a Friday night no less.

“Here, John,” I say, throwing my apron on and washing my hands. “I’ll help.”

Each hour that John and I work together on the line seems to stretch on for an eternity. All the while, my own managerial duties pull at me from every angle, like one of those Medieval torture devices that stretches your limbs. I feel caught in the middle, like an unsuspecting peasant who got caught stealing a loaf of bread.

When the last patron finally leaves and the door locks behind them, a heavy sigh escapes my lips and my shoulders visibly slump.

John looks at me sympathetically. “Thanks for the help, Abby. I appreciate it.”

“It was nothing,” I reply, trying to muster a smile. “Go home, John. Good work today.”

After John leaves, I start the lonely task of cleaning the kitchen. My body screams for rest, my feet aching in rebellion. The mop feels like it weighs a ton as I push it across the tile floor.

But all the while, I can’t help but think about Karl. How could he just not show up? How could he be so selfish, so unreliable? Chloe was right. He’s never going to change. And once again, I’m the fool.

I’m rubbing my eyes, desperately trying to refocus, when suddenly, the kitchen door bursts open. I jump, my heart leaping into my throat, and the mop clatters to the floor.

I whip around, ready to give whoever it is a piece of my mind for scaring the life out of me. And there he is—Karl, standing in the doorway, drenched in water from head to toe and panting for breath, as if he’s been running for miles.

My mouth opens, but no words come out. For the first time all day, I’m truly speechless.