Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 113

Abby

It’s been a few days since Anton first stepped into my restaurant, and already Anton is fitting in perfectly with the team.

That morning when I walked into the restaurant, not knowing whether I had been taken for a fool or not, now seems so distant. Anton and John are running like a well-oiled machine, and the customers have never been happier. I’ve decided that today, at the end of the day, I’m going to offer Anton a full-time position here.

“Abby, table six wants to know if we can make the duck confit gluten-free?” Daisy asks me.

“We can do that. Just make sure to mention it might take a bit longer,” I reply, jotting down an order for the kitchen staff.

Daisy pauses, and I sense she’s gearing up for something more than a simple question about dietary restrictions. “Hey, um, I just wanted to say, Anton’s pretty awesome, isn’t he?”

I glance toward the kitchen, where Anton is in full chef-mode, effortlessly instructing John on how to sear a filet to perfection. His transformation still surprises me—a clean-shaven man in crisp chef whites, as if the person who first walked into my restaurant was a distant relative and not the same man.

I smile. “Yeah, he is. How’s he fitting in with everyone?”

Daisy grins. “I know it’s only been a few days, but we all really like him. He’s so friendly, and such a gentleman, too. I’m glad that he’s a part of our little family now.”

Daisy’s words make me grin. “That’s fantastic to hear, Daisy. I’m really glad you feel that way.”

As if on cue, Karl walks out of the stockroom, his arms laden with bags of flour that seem like they weigh nothing to him. At first, Karl and Anton were like oil and water.

I was surprised that Karl was even willing to entertain the idea of letting Anton work here, let alone going so far as to pay for Anton’s lodging. But these past few days, I think that has changed.

“Karl, can you put those down for a sec?” I catch his eye, and he obliges, dropping the bags onto a nearby table with a quizzical look on his face.

“What’s up?”

“There’s something I think you should do,” I say, glancing back at Anton, who is at the moment engrossed in a playful argument with Daisy over the correct pronunciation of ‘croissant’.

Karl arches an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

I nod my head toward Anton. “An apology, maybe?”

Karl looks confused for a second, then his eyes soften with realization. “Ah, right. The whole ‘chasing him away like a stray dog’ incident.”

I nod. “Exactly.”

Karl blinks at me for a few moments as though he’s about to refuse my request, maybe even tell me that he’s done enough by paying for Anton’s lodging. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and walks up to Anton with purpose.

“Hey, Anton,” Karl says, his voice softer than I had imagined. “Can we talk for a second?”

Anton turns around, placing his knife down with a flourish. “Ah, Karl! What can I do you for, friend?”

“I think I owe you an apology,” Karl says, looking him straight in the eye. “I wasn’t very fair to you the other night, and for that, I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. Watching Karl like this, for reasons I won’t even admit to myself, sends my heart racing. Seeing him so understanding, so open… It’s like a different Karl altogether. Or maybe not different, but… an older version. Before he became a strict and emotionless Alpha, before things went south between us.

It makes me smile, to see him so mature and grown now, but also back to some of his old ways at the same time.

Anton smiles. It’s a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his aging eyes. “Well, who can blame you? First impressions are often cooked to the wrong temperature, no?”

Karl chuckles, and it’s as if the entire room lets out a breath it didn’t know it was holding. He extends his hand, and Anton takes it in a firm shake.

“No hard feelings,” Anton adds. “Besides, you gave me the fire I needed. Every kitchen needs a little heat, oui?”

…

The evening rush is in full swing, and I’m feeling that exhilarating mix of adrenaline and contentment that comes from seeing the restaurant function like a well-oiled machine. The clinking of silverware, the murmur of customers, and the sizzle from the kitchen—it’s all music to my ears.

I’m busy updating the specials on our chalkboard when Daisy rushes over, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Abby, there’s a guy here. Says he’s a journalist? He wants to talk to you.”

My gut clenches.”A journalist? Now? Why?”

Daisy shrugs, looking just as confused as I feel. “I don’t know, but he’s asking some really specific questions. I didn’t know what to say.”

Taking a deep breath, I put down the chalk and head to the front of the restaurant, where a man with a five o’clock shadow and wearing a crumpled suit is flipping through a notepad. He looks up, his eyes sharp, and extends a hand before I even have the chance to say anything.

“Richard Kohler. I’m with the Daily Dispatch. You’re Abby, right?”

“Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

Richard glances around, his eyes taking in the interior of my restaurant, the pristine table settings, the wall decor, the soft lighting. It feels like he’s trying to see through the walls, and I’m not sure if I like it.

“So, Abby, word has gotten out that you’ve hired a homeless person as a chef in your kitchen. Care to comment?”

His tone is casual, but his eyes are predatory. Suddenly, all of this feels like one big trap.

“Yes, I hired Anton,” I say cautiously. “And he’s been an excellent addition to the team. He’s more than qualified for the job.”

Richard scribbles something in his notebook, not breaking eye contact. “Interesting choice, don’t you think? Hiring someone off the streets. Doesn’t that concern you, in terms of hygiene and the like?:

I feel my face flush. This guy’s getting under my skin, but I have to keep it together. “Anton is fully certified and has been trained in food safety. He’s as professional as anyone in this industry.”

“But still, a homeless man, working with food. What will your customers think?”

My heart starts to pound in my chest. This is getting out of control. “I would hope my customers trust my judgment. After all, the quality of the food and service speaks for itself.”

Richard raises an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied. “And what about the other staff? How do they feel about working with someone who was, quite literally, a… street person?”

My mouth opens, but words escape me. He’s hitting me from all angles, and I can feel the room closing in.

Just then, Karl appears from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. He’s been watching from the sidelines, and I can tell he’s had enough.

“Alright, that's enough. Time for you to leave,” Karl says, his voice rough.

Richard looks taken aback. “Leave? I’m just doing my job. People want to know.”

“And we’ve got a job to do too. Serving customers, not entertaining tabloid journalism,” Karl retorts, his eyes locked onto Richard’s.

The tension in the air is so sharp it could cut through diamonds. Richard hesitates, then snaps his notebook shut. “Fine. But this isn’t the end of it.”

As Karl escorts him out, I feel my knees nearly buckle. The thought starts to gnaw at me: What if this ruins the reputation of the restaurant?

And most importantly, what if this one decision, meant to give someone a second chance and help me win the cook-off, ends up being the one thing that pulls the rug out from under us?