Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 146

Abby

The air in the studio feels dense with anticipation as Karl and I walk back to our station together. The crowd murmurs as they become aware of the implications: that only Daniel and I are returning, and Bryan, the third contestant, is nowhere to be found despite the fact that the winners of the second round were never officially announced.

“You okay?” Karl murmurs as we take our spots, standing next to each other with our shoulders touching.

I nod and shrug at the same time, a sense of guilt and trepidation washing over me. “Yes. Sort of. Maybe. I don’t know,” I murmur, clearing my throat subtly.

Karl shoots me a confused look from beneath his blue surgical mask. “What does that mean?” he asks, worry lacing his voice.

I can’t contain my sigh. “It means that, if it weren’t for Bryan’s mother dying, I wouldn’t be standing here right now,” I say quietly. “And I’m not sure how to feel about it, if I’m being honest.”

Karl is silent for a moment before he speaks. “Listen, Abby, I know it’s a shock. But—”

Suddenly, before he can finish, the director holds up his fingers and begins counting down from three. The stage falls silent, and the cameras begin rolling.

The announcer makes his way across the stage, his face more somber now than it was before. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he starts, “before we proceed to the final round, we have an announcement to make.”

My fingers are curled tightly around the edge of my station. I can feel Daniel’s eyes on me, intense and unyielding, even as we face the crowd. A quick glance over at him only serves to prove me right; his eyes are still glinting with that malicious sort of glee. Jerk.

“Bryan will not be joining us for the final round,” the announcer continues. Murmurs ripple through the live audience. “Due to a personal tragedy, he has chosen to withdraw.”

The murmur turns into a low hum, the audience looking around at one another. The announcer continues. “Bryan’s mother has passed away. Let us have a moment of silence.”

As the silence stretches over the crowd, I feel my head bow all on its own. It feels strange, being a finalist only due to a death. A wave of guilt washes over me, knowing that I don’t belong here after my performance in the second round.

Finally, the announcer clears his throat and continues. “Now… the final round will be the biggest test of skill,” he announces. The atmosphere seems to shift, a mixture of tension and excitement winding through the air again. “Our two finalists will be preparing a dish that is both intricate and savory—farro mafaldine with black truffle butter and mushrooms.”

My heart lurches.

That dish. My dish.

The one I’d practiced until my hands moved with the memory of it, the one for which I had hunted down those elusive truffles as if they were treasure. It can’t be a coincidence. It feels like fate. It feels like a trap.

“No way,” I murmur, my breath hitching in my throat.

Karl leans a little closer. “I thought they weren’t—”

“Me too,” I hiss, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter even harder now. “Trust me, I thought so, too.”

Suddenly, the announcer’s voice booming over the microphone brings us back to the moment at hand.

“Our finalists have shown exceptional skill to get this far,” he booms, breaking through the noise of the crowd. “And now, they will face their final challenge. The stakes have never been higher for Abby and Daniel.”

Karl and I shoot another glance at each other. But then, beyond Karl, I see him: Mr. Thompson, standing on the sidelines, looking directly at me.

I shoot Mr. Thompson the subtlest of looks as if to say, “What the hell?” because after all, the last time I saw him in person, he heavily implied that the truffle dish would not be chosen due to the email mishap. And yet, here I am, being expected to cook it.

Mr. Thompson, in return, shoots me something that I don’t expect.

A thumbs up and a grin.

He knew. All this time, he knew. He knew that I was in that email chain—maybe he was even the one to add my name to the list—and he knew that the truffle dish would, in fact, be chosen. Is it possible that it was intentional? A way to give me a leg-up when he knew I needed it?

I can’t be sure. All I know is that right now, all of this feels like one big happy accident—because I know how to make this truffle dish like I know the back of my hand. What felt like countless hours were spent practicing with Anton, getting everything perfect, down to every little texture and flavor.

This is it. This is my chance to win this. This is the edge I have over Daniel, whose face looks like it’s made of stone when I glance over at him. His shoulders are stiff, his hands clasped behind his back, that smirk on his face nothing but a ghost now.

Suddenly, Karl nudges me, bringing me back to reality. I glance up at him to see a glint in his eyes, a grin beneath his mask.

“You’ve got this,” he says, his voice low enough so only I can hear. “Are you excited?”

I can’t help but smile. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

Just then, the announcer continues, his finger poised over the buzzer. “And now,” he begins, his voice echoing across the studio, “we will commence the final round of this year’s Alpha party cooking competition… In three…”

I feel my muscles tense, my senses sharpening, my body hungry to move, to cook, to make the best goddamn truffle dish that these judges have ever tasted.

“Two…”

I glance over at Daniel one more time, only to see him whispering something to his sous chef, worried looks on both of their faces. And in a sickly satisfying way, it feels good to see him panic under the heat of the stage lights.

“One…”

I look up at Karl, and our eyes meet again. His eyes are crinkled, his mouth grinning beneath his blue surgical mask. And as he looks at me, I feel something else, too: gratitude. Gratitude for Karl, for the sous chef I never expected to have, for the man who is standing beside me when I need him the most.

And in this moment, I feel a sensation toward him that I haven’t felt in a long time. Right now, I want to kiss him more than I have in a long, long time.

And suddenly, I feel as though I’m no longer on the stage but back in the pantry instead, our breaths tasting like wine and the sound of our friends dancing and singing in the other room. And I want to taste the alcohol on his lips, want to feel his hands in my hair.

My wolf feels it too, and she stirs, lending me an ounce of her strength to help push me through this final home stretch of the competition, buoyed by Karl’s presence.

“Cook!”