Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 114

Abby

The restaurant door clicks shut behind Karl, sealing off the outside world and its nosy journalists. Karl brushes off his hands as if he’s just dealt with a minor annoyance, but his eyes meet mine, full of concern.

“You okay, Abby?” he asks, walking over to where I’m standing.

“I’m fine,” I say, even though my pulse is still racing. “Just a little shaken up. I didn’t expect that.”

Karl sighs and leans against the counter. “Welcome to the future, Abby. The more successful you become, the more people will come after you, trying to crush your spirit and ruin your reputation.”

His words, although harsh, are true. I should have expected that something like this would happen if I hired a homeless person. Not everyone is as understanding as the people who work in my restaurant, I guess.

“Yeah,” I admit, playing nervously with the edge of my apron. “I just hope it doesn’t affect the restaurant. You know how easily people can be swayed.”

He nods, his gaze still intently on me. “But you also know that people are already talking about how much better the food is, all thanks to Anton. You’re just getting started, Abby. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

Something in the way Karl says it, the sincerity in his eyes, washes over me. I want to believe him. No, I need to believe him.

“I hope you’re right, Karl. I really do.”

Karl nods and offers me a slight smile. I pause, my eyes lingering on him. “And, um, thank you for apologizing to Anton earlier, by the way. It means a lot to me.”

His eyes soften, just a little, enough to take the edge off his usually stern gaze. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy, Abby. You know that.”

My cheeks flush; I can feel the warmth spread across my face. Karl saying that, in that tone, with those brown eyes locked onto mine, brings back a rush of memories and emotions.

Suddenly, it’s just the two of us, and we’re married again, standing in our old kitchen. Back before all of the appointments and the Alpha duties, back before the black hair and the modest clothing and the arguments.

Back when things were simple. Back when things were easy.

“I appreciate it, Karl,” I manage to say, clearing my throat. “But promise me something?”

Karl smirks. “Anything.”

I pause for a moment, hoping that he doesn’t see the blush that’s creeping into my cheeks. “Just promise that you’ll be kind and willing to make amends with people. Not just for me, but because it’s the right thing to do.”

He looks at me like he’s trying to read the layers of meaning behind my words. After a moment, he nods, seeming to understand. “I promise.”

For a fleeting second, I wish he could make up with Chloe, but the thought slips away as quickly as it comes. Chloe made her choice, too. She chose to walk away, to not give Karl a chance.

Relationships are a two-way street, and you can’t force someone to walk down a path they’ve chosen to abandon.

I watch as Karl walks away. His fading form holds my attention, the way that his arms bulge against his sleeves, the way he strides so confidently back into the kitchen as if he’s been doing this for years.

For a moment, just a moment, I picture the two of us together again. More thoughts flood into my mind, thoughts that I probably shouldn’t be entertaining, and I have to busy myself with wrapping silverware to make them go away.

God, I think to myself, shaking my head. It’s been too long since I got laid. I’m starting to go off the deep end here.

…

It’s early in the afternoon the next day when the door chimes, signaling a new arrival. I turn, expecting to see a new customer, but instead I see Mr. Thompson walking toward me. My heart beats a little faster as he approaches. I wasn’t expecting him to come today.

“Afternoon, Abby,” he greets, his eyes scanning the dining area where customers seem happily engrossed in their meals. There’s a slightly more serious look on his face than usual, which gives me pause. “Could we talk?”

“Of course, Mr. Thompson,” I manage, swallowing my surprise. “What brings you here?”

“I’ve heard your restaurant is making quite the splash lately. Mind if I take a look at the kitchen?”

His request takes me off guard; he’s already seen my kitchen before, but I can’t refuse.

“Sure,” I say, leading the way past chattering patrons and clinking glassware. I push open the swinging door to the kitchen, where the hustle and bustle of my cooks fills the air. Anton is animatedly preparing a pot of French onion soup while Karl and John are leaning over the counter together, their heads bent, inspecting a tray of scallops.

“Here we are,” I announce, gesturing at the controlled chaos around me.

Mr. Thompson steps in, his eyes moving critically from the prep stations to the line cooks and finally to Anton, who is still engrossed in his soup. His gaze lingers on the French chef for a few moments, hesitating, before landing on me. “Busy today, huh?”

“Yes, very,” I respond. “Business has been good, and we aim to keep it that way.”

“I see cleanliness is a priority as always,” he observes, his gaze lingering on Anton once more.

I can’t shake the feeling that I—or rather, Anton—am being tested, but I plaster a smile on my face and nod. “Of course, Mr. Thompson. We always get top ratings on our health reports.”

After a few more moments of looking around, Mr. Thompson nods in a satisfied manner and follows me to the door. But once we’re in the hallway, alone, his facade seems to drop ever so slightly.

“Abby, I’m sure you know that I’m not just here for a visit,” he says, his voice low.”

I swallow, deciding to feign ignorance. “Oh?”

Mr. Thompson sighs. “Listen, I disregard tabloid journalism just as much as the next guy,” he says gently. “But that article… Well, it’s stirring the pot, to say the least. Is it true? Your new chef is homeless?”

My heart sinks a little at his words. This was exactly what I feared, but I’m not about to lie. “Yes,” I say, holding my chin up. “Anton is homeless, but he’s an excellent chef. We’re happy to have him. He’s passionate, not just about the kitchen, but about getting his life back in order. And I’m glad to serve as a stepping stone for him in that regard.”

Mr. Thompson pauses for a moment, clearly moved by my little speech. But there’s also something else behind his eyes, something that smacks of duty.

“That is very sweet, Abby,” he says. “But also a liability. I hope you know that.”

“How so?”

He sighs. “You’re a finalist for the competition, which puts you under our brand. An incident like this reflects not just on you, but on the competition itself.”

His words make my stomach lurch, but all I can do is keep holding my chin high and hope for the best: that I won’t be disqualified, not just over Anton, but also over the emails that I was privy to, which Mr. Thompson thankfully hasn’t mentioned yet.

“I understand that, Mr. Thompson.”

“So you see why it’s crucial for you to maintain not just a clean kitchen, but a clean image. I recommend you publish an article to clear the air. Make a statement before anything else can escalate.”

“I’ve been considering that,” I admit. “It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“Well, the situation is delicate, Mr. Thompson. I’m afraid that a journalist might portray it as something that it’s not.”

“The complications of fame,” he says, smiling wryly. “You wanted success, and all the challenges that come with it. This is one such challenge.”

“I understand, Mr. Thompson, and I”ll address it.”

“See that you do. The competition cannot afford a scandal, and neither can you, I presume.”

“You’re right.”

“Excellent,” he says, satisfied. “Then, I’ll be looking forward to reading your clarification soon.”

“You will. Thank you for your advice,” I say, as he makes his way toward the door.

“Oh, and one more thing, Abby.” He pauses, turning back toward me with a stern expression in his eyes. My stomach is suddenly doing somersaults, even worse than before as he levels his gaze with me. “If you perhaps saw anything in your email, I think it is best if you disregard it. Hm?”

My breath hitches. So he knew; and probably everyone else did, too. I shake my head quickly, trying not to show just how petrified I am right now.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Mr. Thompson smiles, and that jovial expression of his returns. “Glad we’re on the same page. See you at the competition, Abby. Oh, and I almost forgot—you’ll be receiving information on your pre-competition interview. Televised, of course. It’ll be scheduled for the day before the cook-off next week, and you’ll have a chance to meet the other contestants. Good luck.”

With that, Mr. Thompson turns on his heel and disappears. Only then can I finally let go of the breath I’ve been holding before I nearly pass out.