Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 108

Abby

Karl and I burst into the restaurant, a gust of fresh air sweeping in with us as the door swings shut behind.

Our clothes are still wet, covered in mud, and clinging uncomfortably to our skin, but the euphoria coursing through my veins easily overcomes any discomfort that I might be feeling. The kitchen, already in full swing for the day, is a cacophony of noise.

John looks up from behind the line, his knife poised mid-air over a bunch of fresh herbs. His brows knit together as he takes in our disheveled state.

“Where the hell have you both been?”

Without uttering a word, I slide my satchel off my shoulder and set it onto the counter with a triumphant grin. My heart pounds in my chest as I untie the flap, feeling a surge of triumph course through my veins.

Turning the bag upside-down, I silently let the truffles tumble out in a glorious cascade.

John’s eyes go wide, giving him a comical look. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this shocked, except for the one time that one of the waitresses dropped his prized braised lamb all over the floor before the plate even made it out of the kitchen.

He rushes around the counter, hands trembling slightly as he picks one of the mushrooms up, bringing it closer to inspect it carefully. “Is this... a black truffle?”

Tears spring into my eyes as I nod. “Yes, John. Black truffles.”

He’s still holding the truffle, but now he's also holding his breath and staring at us, clearly waiting for an explanation.

“We, uh… had to go off the beaten path,” Karl starts, a tremor in his voice from the lingering adrenaline of our escape. I can tell he’s reliving it all, just like me. “Through poacher territory, believe it or not.”

“We found a waterfall, and behind it... a cave,” I continue, feeling a chill run up my spine as I recount the experience. I’ll probably be reliving it for a long time to come. “A cave full of these bad boys. Artificial lights, the whole setup.”

John’s eyes grow wider with each passing second that I tell the fragments of our story.

“So you… stole from poachers?” he asks once we’ve finished.

I nod, maybe a little more excitedly than I mean to. “Look, I know it’s bad,” I begin, “but—”

“Bad?” John interrupts, his voice incredulous. “You guys could’ve been caught! Or worse!”

Karl nods with a grave expression on his face. “And we almost were. They had guards. With guns. And dogs. We had to run like our lives depended on it.”

“Because our lives did depend on it,” I add, the words heavy but true. “We ran up the ravine, through the woods, across clearings, through thickets. We were followed, we heard the dogs. I thought we were gonna die, honestly. But we made it. We got to the car and drove away.”

Silence envelops the kitchen for a few moments as John absorbs the gravity of what we’ve just told him. Then, finally, he exhales. His voice is shaky.

“I can’t believe you two idiots did that. But I’m just glad you’re okay,” he says, setting the truffle down like it’s a rare artifact, and I guess it sort of is.

I feel a warm sensation spreading through me, mingling with lingering feelings of adrenaline. I glance at Karl. His eyes meet mine, and through the exhaustion and the dirt coating his face, I can see something else there. Something softer, something that makes me soften a little, too.

“I… I couldn’t have done it without Karl,” I find myself murmuring.

Karl stares at me for a moment in shock, but then, a soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He doesn’t need to utter the words, because I already know what he’s saying.

We did it. Together.

…

We’re in the kitchen after hours again. It’s been a long and exhausting day, but I’m far too wired to go home and sleep right now, and it seems that neither are Karl or John.

I look at over John, his eyes locked in concentration as he lays out the ingredients on the counter. Karl is perched on a stool off to the side, arms crossed, watching us intently.

“Okay, Abby. Let’s get everything in place. Farro mafaldine, black truffle butter, and the mushrooms,” John says, his hand passing over each individual ingredient—and lingering over the coveted black truffles—as he speaks.

I nod. My body feels like it’s about to burst, I’m so excited. “I can’t believe we’re finally doing this,” I say. “If we can just nail this dish, the cook-off is ours.”

Karl chuckles from the sidelines. “No pressure, huh?”

John and I share a quick glance and a collective breath before diving in.

He works on preparing the handmade pasta, expertly feeding the farro mafaldine through the machine. I focus on the mushrooms, slicing them with surgical precision before turning to the star of our dish: the black truffles.

Carefully, I shave thin layers of the truffles, letting them fall into the small pot of melted butter on the stove. The aroma is intoxicating, filling the room and making my stomach growl with anticipation.

After what feels like an eternity, the dish is finally complete. John and I step back, looking at the steaming bowl of farro mafaldine, black truffle butter, and mushrooms sitting on the countertop.

“Well, here goes nothing,” I say, scooping a generous portion onto three plates for taste testing.”

We each pick up a fork, the atmosphere between us thick with anticipation.

But the moment the pasta touches my tongue, I know something is wrong. The flavors clash horrendously, causing my palate to wince in response. The black truffle butter, rather than enhancing the dish as it should, is instead overpowering the dish with a dirty, murky flavor.

I spit the food out instinctively, my eyes going wide as I chug a glass of water sitting beside me to wash out the taste of soil. “Oh, this is bad. This is really, really bad.”

John’s face mirrors my sentiments, his eyes widening as he puts his fork down and swallows harshly. Karl doesn’t say anything, but the slight grimace on his face speaks volumes.

“We can’t serve this,” I mutter, already dumping the disgusting dish into the trash. “I’ve never cooked with black truffles before. I didn’t realize they could overpower a dish so easily.”

“Me neither. But let’s try again,” John suggests, surprisingly lighthearted despite the failed attempt and our limited supply of black truffles.

Once again, we get to work. We start by making adjustments to the recipe, cutting down on the truffle, changing the ratios of spices.

But the result is somehow even worse than the first attempt. The three of us almost spit out our bites in unison, John’s face paling to a sickly hue.

“Good god!” I exclaim, clutching the edge of the counter with a grimace. “What are we getting wrong?”

Karl mumbles something to himself, poking at the pasta with his fork. “Maybe… too much butter?”

I shake my head. “Can’t be. If anything, it was dry.”

“And you’re sure these are black truffles, and not some… I don’t know, hallucinogens or something?” John spits out.

“No, they’re definitely black truffles,” I say. “We just need to keep trying. God, I wish I could just get some help from someone with experience in cooking this sort of thing. Then it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Frustrated and verging on desperate, I take the bowl of the failed second attempt and march towards the dumpster outside.

This is absolutely not how I envisioned the night going, and my head feels like a swirling mass of disappointment and anger. With the cook-off coming so close, I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I thought that it would all be smooth sailing once I got the truffles, but it’s turning out to be anything but.

Cursing under my breath, I storm over to the dumpster and lift the lid to throw the failed dish in. But that’s when a haggard voice suddenly catches my attention.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

I whip around, my eyes going wide.

Standing at the far end of the alley is a homeless man. His eyes aren’t on me, but rather on the bowl in my hands.