Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 112

Abby

I walk into my restaurant the next morning, the scent of fresh coffee and baked bread filling the air. The morning sun casts long beams of light through the windows, but the atmosphere inside feels oddly electric, tense yet filled with a strange and unexpected kind of exhilaration.

It’s the day after last night’s events, and I’m running on a blend of excitement and worry, my thoughts a toss-up between optimism and that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Did I make a mistake with Anton? Was it all an elaborate con for free food and a hotel room, or perhaps even a bizarre dream? Most importantly, what if he never actually shows?

As I head toward the kitchen, though, it quickly becomes apparent that something is off. My staff are gathered around the kitchen door, oohing, aahing, and giggling at something going on inside.

“Ethan, what’s going on?” I ask as I see my restaurant manager limping his way towards me, his face a mixture of concern and bewilderment.

“Abby, who is this strange French man you’ve brought into the kitchen? The staff are all worked up,” Ethan mutters, leaning against the counter and rubbing his forehead as if trying to make sense of it all.

My eyes light up, my heart racing at the realization. “Yes, Ethan, that’s Anton. He’s our new temporary hire. A trial run to see how he fits in. Maybe he’ll stay for good.”

Ethan gives me a wary look but doesn’t press further. He knows me too well to question my instincts outright, at least not until we’re in hot water.

Brushing past Ethan, I make my way through the maze of excited staff. I reach the kitchen doors and push them open, and that’s when the tantalizing aroma of something sweet and creamy fills my senses.

And then I hear it—laughter. Real, genuine laughter echoing through the air, and I can’t help but smile.

“Ah, John, I told you, if your batter has more lumps than a teenager’s face, your cheesecake will turn out as uneven as a poorly laid tile floor.”

There it is. Anton’s thick French accent, which sounds even more delightful in the light of day.

John’s almost abrasive laughter booms across the room. “Anton, you have a way with words, man. But watch me—this will be the best damn cheesecake you’ve ever seen!”

Slipping into the room, my eyes light up. There’s Anton, standing near the counter with John while all of the servers watch in awe. They’re like a comedy duo, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly.

Anton’s eyes meet mine, and his face lights up in a brilliant smile. I almost don’t even recognize him at first because he’s shaved his beard, showered, and someone has given him new clothes, but it’s him alright. “Abby! I bet you thought I wouldn’t show, hm?”

I can’t help but grin back. “It may have crossed my mind, but I’ve never been more glad to be wrong.”

Anton looks back at the mixing bowl, his hands gracefully twirling the wooden spoon through the batter. “So, are you ready to be dazzled by my culinary expertise? Or should I say, continue to be dazzled?”

I chuckle, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle before me. “Go on, dazzle away.”

In the midst of all this, I glance over to see Karl standing against the stainless steel counter, his arms folded. His expression is a blend of skepticism and wonder, but I can detect the slightest curl at the corners of his mouth—an almost smile. And that’s enough for me.

“John, how’re you holding up?” I call out, deliberately raising my voice to break Karl’s reverie.

John wipes his hand on a kitchen towel and gestures grandly towards Anton. “Oh, the master here is trying to make a ‘true chef’ out of me. Says my cheesecake is too ‘pedestrian.’ Can you believe that?”

Anton interjects, “Pedestrian isn’t bad, John. It just means you’ve got room to stroll into something extraordinary.”

A ripple of laughter works its way across the staff crowding around the door. I can’t help but chuckle again too, utterly delighted at the camaraderie that’s already blossoming between my chefs.

As Anton returns to his lesson, emphasizing the importance of a perfectly textured cream cheese, I feel the doubts and uncertainties of last night melting away. I took a gamble on Anton, yes, but the man is already getting along here in ways I hadn’t even imagined.

But his probation isn’t over yet. His performance and loyalty over the coming weeks will be the true test.

…

I slide into the kitchen after the last guest of the night has been served. It’s been a hectic day, but Anton’s expertise in the kitchen was a godsend. Never before has the kitchen ever run this smoothly.

I can already taste the financial stress paying a professional like him would put me in if I hired him for good, but I’m already thinking of ways to foot the bill. I still need to give Anton time to prove himself, but if he does, I know I want him to stay. And I think everyone else does, too.

Even Karl, maybe.

“Anton, you promised me a cooking lesson. How about now?” I ask, leaning against the counter and trying not to seem too eager.

He looks up, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, Abby, I was hoping you’d remember,” he says in that signature accent of his. There’s a newfound sense of excitement in him, and I can tell that the kitchen is really his home. “Yes, yes, of course!”

Within moments, he’s setting up the ingredients on a clean countertop: farro mafaldine pasta, assorted mushrooms, various cheeses and spices, and of course the coveted black truffles.

“So, watch closely. First, you want to get the water boiling like it’s a hot spring in Iceland,” Anton instructs, setting a large pot on the stove.

“Icelandic hot springs, got it,” I nod, not really sure where Iceland comes into the picture, but willing to go with it.

We move through the steps. Anton’s hands are precise, his instructions detailed yet straightforward, and also oddly couched in every metaphor and analogy possible. I can see John and Karl peeping over from their stations, curious but not wanting to intrude. They pretend to be absorbed in their tasks but I can tell that they’re eavesdropping.

“A touch of salt in the water,” Anton says as he sprinkles it into the pot, “makes it as salty as the sea. Or at least, that’s what my grandma used to say. She drowned in a freshwater lake, which I always found ironic.”

My eyes widen. “Anton…”

“Kidding, kidding,” he says, flicking another pinch of salt into the water with a flourish. Behind me, I can hear John stifle a laugh, and it comes out like he’s being choked.

After we add the pasta, Anton guides me through the delicate process of making the sauce. He sautees the mushrooms carefully. “Treat them like you would a first date, gentle yet with intent,” he says, and now I’m the one who can’t contain my laugh.

“How many first dates have you had with mushrooms?”

“Ah, a gentleman never tells.”

Finally, it’s time to add the part that I’ve most been dreading: the black truffle butter. After carefully simmering almost microscopic pieces of black truffles with lard, Anton slices a small piece, letting it melt into the pan, and the aroma is heavenly.

“So you use lard instead of butter,” I murmur, jotting on my notepad.

Anton nods. “Lard has so much more flavor. Just pray that none of the judges for your competition are vegetarians. Ha!”

After the truffle butter has melted, we combine the pasta with the sauce, stirring it gently until it looks as mouth watering as any dish I’ve seen prepared in this kitchen.

“Et voila! It’s done. Go on, plate it.” Anton steps back, handing me the reins now.

My hands are slightly shaky, the anticipation mingling with a tiny stream of self-doubt. What if I ruin it at the last step? I glance over at John and Karl; they’ve put down their tools now, their full attention on me.

No pressure, right?

I take a deep breath, spoon some pasta onto a dish, and top it off with a sprinkle of parmesan cheese and a sprig of basil. Anton hands me a fork with a nod.

“We should all taste it,” I declare, twirling a piece of pasta around my fork.

John and Karl come over, and the three of us dig in. The room falls silent for a moment, and the only sound is the clinking of forks against the plate.

The flavors explode in my mouth—earthy, rich, with a hint of decadence from the truffle butter. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before.

“It’s…” I start, searching for the words.

“Delicious,” John finishes my sentence, his eyes wide with delight.

“Perfect,” Karl adds, and I notice his stoic demeanor has given way to a grin.

I look at Anton, my eyes filled with gratitude. “It really is perfect, Anton. Thank you… for everything.”

Anton bows slightly, a playful smile on his lips. “The pleasure is mine. But remember, the flavor was already here. I only added a bit of spice.”