Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 123

Abby

It’s halfway to closing time, and my desk is scattered with index cards. My computer is open to an email from Mr. Thompson outlining some of the potential questions I may be asked during the interview. I’ve written them down, along with my potential responses on the back of each card, so I can practice.

I want to be prepared. I have to be prepared. This interview is the beginning of everything; it’s the deciding factor behind whether I’ll garner positive or negative attention.

And although the article went well in the end, I need to play it safe. I’ve already got enough trouble when it comes to my restaurant’s reputation, and I want to make sure everything runs smoothly.

Taking a deep breath, I pick one of the index cards up. “What inspired you to become a chef?” it reads. I turn to face the mirror hanging on the wall, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

“Growing up,” I start, talking to my reflection, “my mother’s kitchen was always the heart of our home… No, that’s not right.” I pause, flipping the card over to read my pre-written response. “My mother’s kitchen was my favorite room in the—”

Just then, the door bursts open. I jump, a startled gasp escaping my lips as the index card slips from my fingers and flutters to the floor.

“Abby, I was wondering if you—” Karl stops mid-sentence, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Am I interrupting something?”

A blush instantly colors my cheeks. “No, no, not at all,” I stammer, hurriedly snatching the fallen index card from the floor and hiding it behind my back, as if that would somehow make the situation less awkward.

Karl arches an eyebrow, his eyes dropping to my hands, now awkwardly positioned behind me. “Hiding something?”

“Me? Hide something? Never!” I force a chuckle, my face heating up even more.

For a moment, he just stands there, eyeing me curiously. Then, in one fluid motion, he steps forward, snatching the hidden index card from behind my back.

“Ah,” he says, reading the question out loud. “‘What inspired you to become a chef?’ Preparing for the interview, are we?”

I groan, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Give that back, you thief!”

He chuckles, holding the card just out of reach, his eyes lighting up with mischief as I try and fail to jump and grab it from him. “So, what’s the answer?” he asks. “I’m curious.”

“Fine,” I huff, my face redder than a beet. “I was practicing, okay? I want to be prepared for all of the questions, no matter how trivial.”

He grins, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Oh, I see. You’ve always been a perfectionist.”

“Maybe I am,” I retort, feeling a sense of playfulness wash over my initial embarrassment. “What’s wrong with being prepared?”

Karl finally hands the index card back to me, his eyes softening. “Absolutely nothing. Your preparedness is something that I’ve always admired, actually.”

The blush creeps back into my cheeks. It’s only now that I realize how close we’re standing, and how our fingers brush when I take the card back from him. It sends a shiver through my body, and for a moment, I can pick up his scent. It makes me feel weak.

“Um, thanks,” I murmur, tucking the card back into the pile.

He leans against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest. “Would you like some help preparing for this interview? Two heads are better than one, after all.”

My eyes meet his, and a tingle of something—nervousness, excitement, maybe even a bit of both—runs down my spine. With Karl’s presence filling the room, bringing with it a mix of tension and comfort, I feel a newfound confidence.

His offer makes my heart race. “How would you even help me?” I find myself asking. “You’re an Alpha, not a television interviewer.”

Karl grins, pushing himself away from the doorframe. “Oh, you’d be surprised. Besides, I can act as your mock interviewer. You’ll be yourself, and I’ll be the scary, intimidating person who decides your fate. What do you say? Tonight, after closing?”

My eyes sparkle with intrigue. “Okay. You’re on.”

…

Eventually, the last of the staff say their goodbyes, flicking off the lights and turning over chairs on tables. I’m almost tempted to do the same, to call it a night and retreat into the comfort of my home, but then Karl re-enters my office, holding two wine glasses and a bottle of my favorite Merlot in his hands.

“Ready?” he asks, setting the bottle down on my desk with a soft thud.

I glance at the bottle, then back at him. “Wine? Are you trying to get me drunk before my big interview?”

Karl chuckles, pulling the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop. “Of course not. Just thought it’d help you relax, get you into the right mindset. Besides, I’m thirsty.”

“I don’t know about you, but alcohol doesn’t exactly help me think clearer,” I say, but I’m already reaching for one of the glasses he’s filling.”

He hands me the glass, our fingers brushing briefly. “And that’s why it’s just a glass. Or two.”

“Fine,” I say, sipping the wine. “So how does this work? You ask me questions, and I pretend like it’s the real thing?”

“Exactly,” he confirms, taking his own sip. “Ready for your first question?”

I nod. "Fire away."

He picks up one of the index cards from my desk, skimming it before looking back at me. “Alright. Tell me about a challenging situation you’ve faced in the kitchen and how you handled it.”

I’m halfway through my answer when he interrupts me. “Wait. You’re not taking this seriously enough. Stand up. Pretend like you’re actually at the interview.”

I set down my glass, a little exasperated. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he insists.

With a sigh, I stand, suddenly feeling like I’m on a stage. Karl also stands, a serious look on his face. He pauses for a moment, chewing his lips, before grabbing a lint roller off of a shelf and holding it out to me like a microphone. “Better,” he says with a smirk.

“Seriously, Karl? A lint roller?”

He chuckles. “Trust me, when a microphone is being shoved in your face, you’ll be glad you had the practice.”

I huff. “Fine,” I say, starting over, detailing a kitchen crisis involving a burnt turkey and a vegan substitute. He listens intently, nodding every now and then.

“Good,” he says when I finish. “Next question. What inspired you to become a chef?”

This time, my answer flows easily. I talk about my mom, the smell of cinnamon and sugar filling our home every Sunday, the sense of family and togetherness that came from simple meals shared. When I’m finished, there’s a warm smile on my face, and it’s not even intentional.

Karl smiles, clearly pleased. “See? You’re a natural at this.”

We continue this way for a while, downing another glass of wine each and laughing more than we probably should be. We’re on what must be the fifth or sixth question, something about culinary trends, when Karl suddenly puts down the index card and looks at me, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I have a question that’s not on the list,” he says, his voice taking on a sobering tone.

My heart skips a beat. “Um, okay. Shoot.”

He takes a sip of his wine, setting the glass down. He then clears his throat and levels his gaze with mine, and all at once, I feel like I might melt where I’m standing.

“So, when you win the competition and have to cater the Alpha party… what will you do with the date you were supposed to have with Karl?”