Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 144

Abby

I’m sitting by myself in the breakroom, my fingers wrapped around a cardboard cup of coffee from the vending machine. The coffee has already gone cold, but it’s not like I was drinking it anyway. The taste was too bitter for what I need right now.

Karl stepped out just a few minutes ago. He said he had to make a call, and I’m too numb to question it. Right now, I welcome the silence of the breakroom. I needed it after that little display on the stage.

I can still feel the heat from the stage lights, the biting sting of Logan’s harsh words. “You should know your ingredients.” His voice replays in my head like a broken record, his voice pulsing alongside the pounding headache I have right now.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and Bryan strides in, his phone pressed to his ear. He shoots me a distracted nod before he murmurs an apology and exits the room, no doubt seeking privacy for his call. My solitude is short-lived.

Then, much to my chagrin, Daniel enters the breakroom just as Bryan slips out. He stops short when he sees me, his eyes lip up with a smirk that makes my blood boil.

“Tough break out there, Abby,” he says, pouring himself a coffee. No sugar, no cream. Black, just as I expected. Just like his heart.

“Did you have anything to do with it?” The accusation leaps from my lips before I can weigh the consequences.

He turns, leaning back against the counter, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Tamper with your station? Please. I don’t play games, Abby. I don’t have to.”

“But the spices were switched. You were the only one who—” I start, but my voice trails off. I shouldn’t finish. It’s too much of a leap, and I don’t have any evidence.

“Even if I did, which I didn’t, you should have known,” he hisses. “A chef should know her ingredients by smell, by taste.” Daniel’s sneer is sharp and pointed directly at me. There’s a sort of gleeful malice behind his eyes, and I can tell he’s lying through his teeth.

My hands clench into fists around the cardboard cup, crushing it a little with my grip. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I blurt out.

His chuckle is low, wry, voice of any real humor. “What I enjoy, Abby, is watching someone who’s out of her depth flail around and make a fool out of herself on live television.”

The coffee is forgotten as I stand, my chair scraping back with a noise that feels all too loud in the quiet room. “So, what, this is fun for you? Sabotaging me?”

Daniel shrugs casually, but I know what he’s thinking. “You sabotage yourself, Abby. You don’t need my help to do that,” he says, his lips turning up at the corners.

“And you think because you’ve won a few rounds, you’re some kind of cooking prodigy yourself?” I hiss, curling my hands into fists at my side.

Daniel takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “I know I’m good. But you? You’re just...”

“Just what, Daniel?” I challenge, though I’m not sure whether I want to hear the answer or not.

He grins, and it’s all teeth. “You’re just playing pretend. When the pressure’s on, the true colors show. And yours?” He tsks, shaking his head. “They’re all over the place. Today proved that. You don’t belong here.”

The room is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of chatter from the stage area. Daniel’s gaze is unyielding, and I feel exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights.

He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. But the seed of doubt he’s planted is persistent, and it’s beginning to finally take root today.

“I know my way around a kitchen better than you ever will,” I retort, although the words feel hollow even as I spit them out.

“Abby, Abby, Abby,” he tuts, pushing off from the counter to take another step closer. “You can barely navigate your way out of a paper bag. This competition? It’s not for the weak. It’s not for the passionless. And it’s definitely not for someone who can’t tell nutmeg from cardamom.”

His words are like a slap to the face, a reminder of the humiliation on stage. Of Logan’s disappointment. Of Vanessa’s confused expression. Of the tiramisu that now represents my biggest failure, all on live television.

Logan turns to leave, his posture as casual as ever as he saunters over toward the door, as if this is over.

But then, I suddenly have an epiphany.

“You’re scared,” I blurt out. “That’s why you’re trying to sabotage me. You’re scared that I might outshine you. That a woman, of all people, might beat you in this competition. And you can’t stand that.”

Daniel freezes for a moment, and for the briefest of seconds, I think I see a slight tremble in his shoulders. It’s so quick that I almost miss it, but it’s there. He slowly turns around, and there’s that signature smirk of his again, but I can sense the hollowness behind it now.

“You wish,” he says, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “As if I’d ever be scared of someone like…”

“Like what?” I ask, placing my hands on my hips. “A woman?”

Daniel meets my gaze with a flash in his eyes. “Not just a woman. A slut.”

I can feel the tips of my fingers go cold from the sudden shock of his words. “Excuse me?” I grit out through clenched teeth.

“It’s shameful, really,” he states, taking a step toward me. His posture almost feels aggressive, and I find myself taking a shaky step back, my resolve wavering. He chuckles. “A woman attempting to muscle her way into a space where she’s clearly outmatched. It tarnishes the image of dedicated chefs—real chefs—who have a genuine passion and talent for cooking.:

As Daniel speaks, he closes the distance between us. I find myself involuntarily stepping back, trying to put space between us, until my back is up against the counter. But Daniel just keeps coming until he’s mere inches away from my face.

“You think because I’m a woman, I can’t be as good as any man in the kitchen?” I ask, my voice trembling more than I would like.

There’s a tense silence for a moment, broken only by a chuckle from Daniel’s lips. “Good? Abby, even if I had tampered with your station—which I assure you I did not—you would have found some way to botch it up because, frankly, you don’t know the first thing about cooking.”

“And opening a restaurant?” he continues before I can retort, each word deliberate, punctuated with a sneer. “Maybe after today’s performance, or should I say lack thereof, you’ll realize you have no place in this industry. Shut it down. Go home. Let a man take care of you for a change. It’s in your nature, no?”

I open my mouth to retort, but before I can, I’m abruptly cut off.

The door swings open, and Bryan steps in, phone still in hand. His eyes quickly flick between Daniel and me, the sadness in them stark against the fluorescent lights. Daniel clears his throat and quickly steps away, and finally I feel like I can breathe.

And then, behind Bryan, comes someone else…

Mr. Thompson.

And the room falls silent.