Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 142

Abby

The director holds up three fingers, his mouth moving silently as he counts down to live. Three… two… one.

“And… we’re back!” The announcer's voice booms across the studio, and the audience erupts into cheers and applause as an assistant holds up cue cards out of the camera’s view. “What a whirlwind first round, folks! Let’s give a round of applause to our winners so far: Abby, Bryan, and Daniel!”

The announcer’s voice then turns our attention toward the contestant who lost last round. “It was a tough loss for Frederick, but that’s the nature of the game!” he says.

The judges then come into the spotlight, and Logan’s words slice through the warmth of the stage lights.

“The first round was child’s play,” he says. “Now, we begin to separate the good eggs…” His eyes skewer me from across the room, and I resist the urge to look away. “From the bad.”

Karl’s eyes flit over to me, but I ignore them. I keep my smile plastered on my face, urging myself to ignore the ghost of Logan and Daniel’s words, to place my entire focus on the real reason why I’m here: to win.

Vanessa’s tone, by contrast, is a comfort. “I expect the best from all of our lovely contestants,” she says, her smile sweeping the stage. “And most of all, let’s appreciate why we’re here today: to celebrate cuisine in all of its forms.”

As the judges return to their stand, the announcer draws in a deep breath.

“Contestants,” he starts, the studio falling eerily silent. “We’re about to sweeten the pot! Forget the entrees; we’re diving into desserts this round! A limoncello and pistachio tiramisu is your challenge!”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, and a knot of anxiety begins to twist in my gut.

“Dessert?” I repeat softly, my mind racing through the preparations that I wasn’t expecting to make until the third round.

Karl leans in, his whisper barely audible over the buzz of the audience. “Didn’t see that coming, did we? You’ve got any dessert tricks up your sleeve?” he asks.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Maybe one or two, but tiramisu is a whole different beast,” I answer. “Luckily for us, I’ve practiced this recipe. So I think we should be okay.”

Karl grins, the tension leaving his eyes for the first time since the announcement. “And that’s why you’ll win; because you’re always prepared.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I murmur.

I take in the array of ingredients that I didn’t have a chance to properly familiarize myself with this morning: the standing mixer, the fragrant spices, the proofing rack. I begin making a list in my head of what I’ll need, which spices will best suit the flavor, what I could incorporate for an extra kick that will make my dish stand out.

Just then, the director gives us the cue. We’re just moments away from the signal to start, the final seconds ticking away.

The announcer raises his voice, and I feel Karl’s hand grip mine for a fleeting moment—it sends a shiver through my body, and I find myself squeezing back, the knot in my throat loosening ever so slightly as his touch.

“Contestants,” the announcer says, “take your positions. We begin in three... two... one… Cook!”

The buzzer sounds and the kitchen descends into chaos again.

As though we’ve done this a thousand times before, Karl and I dart around the stainless steel island, pulling out mixing bowls and measuring spoons, spices, cream, dairy.

“Get started zesting the lemons,” I instruct, tossing a few lemons his way. He catches them with ease, his eyes narrowed like a predator on the hunt, a look that I’ve seen on his face a million times before.

I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to measure with conviction. Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is no room for measuring mistakes. An extra tablespoon of sugar could ruin the whole dish.

Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t forget to breathe, Abby,” he reminds me, shooting me a wink from across the table.

I let out a breath. “I’m breathing.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding the bowl of lemon zest toward me. “Everyone knows that breathing involves keeping your chest perfectly still, your shoulders stiff, your face red.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, fine. You’ve got me.”

We move in sync for a little while longer, zesting and whipping. The timer is counting down faster than I expected, but I’m not worried.

Until, that is, I reach for the nutmeg—only to pop open the lid and wince at the overwhelming scent of cumin. “What the—”

Karl looks up, eyes narrowing. “That’s not nutmeg.”

“No, it’s not.” I frantically search for the correct spice, but time is slipping through my fingers. “Maybe the labels got messed up.” I pick up another jar, pop open the lid, and inhale. But the jar, labeled ‘cinnamon’ this time, smells like paprika.

“Huh?” I mutter, my panic rising. “Paprika in the cinnamon jar? What’s going on here?”

Karl is already on the move, reaching into our spice cupboard up to his elbow. He eventually pulls out another jar labeled ‘nutmeg’ and hands it to me. “Here, this one is bound to be the right one. The other must have gotten mixed up.”

Nodding, I grab the jar. A quick glance at the clock makes my heart leap into my chest; I’ve wasted more time hunting for spices than I would have liked, and the camera is on me, documenting my struggle. Stifling a curse, I dump the nutmeg into the mixture and get back to work.

We scramble to catch up with the other contestants, but the lost minutes feel like a lifetime. I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right, that this mix-up was more than just an accident.

“Karl, these spices,” I hiss, whisking furiously, “do you think—”

“—Sabotage?” he finishes. I nod, and he narrows his eyes. “Don’t worry about it right now, Abby. Not enough time.”

Karl is right. I’m gritting my teeth, my mind racing with suspicions I can’t afford to entertain right now. The clock is ticking, and the tiramisu is only halfway done.

“Pass the pistachios,” I say next, my voice strangely steady despite the pounding in my chest.

Karl hands them over without a word, his focus completely dialed in on the competition.

The mascarpone turns out a little bit clumpier than I would like, but the clock isn’t slowing down, and the other contestants are already layering their tiramisu. “Come on, we have to layer,” I murmur, slamming the dish on the counter. Karl, sensing my anxiety, begins laying the lady fingers inside, and I follow suit with a layer of the mixture.

“You’ll be fine,” Karl assures me as he glances at the clock. But I’m not immune to the trepidation in his voice; we’ve only got two minutes left.

As we assemble the final layer, my hands shake, dusting the pistachios on top with less grace than I would like. The tiramisu doesn’t look like the masterpiece I envisioned; it’s messier, its layers are uneven, and the mascarpone is clumpy.

But why? I knew this recipe like the back of my hand. The nutmeg should have mixed in just fine, and yet…

“Time’s up,” I breathe out, my eyes on the clock hanging over our heads.

“Three… Two… One…” The announcer counts down, and as he hits the last number, we step back.

And then, the buzzer goes off, indicating the end of the round.