Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 147

Karl

The sizzle of sauteing farro mafaldine fills the air as Abby and I maneuver around our station like we’ve done this a million times before. I can sense a newfound glimmer in Abby’s eyes, a hint of something confident and downright mesmerizing.

“Ken,” Abby’s voice cuts sharply through the noise, using the pseudonym that I chose earlier today like it’s second nature to her despite the pressure, “start on the mushrooms. I’ll handle the mafaldine and get the sauce going.”

“On it,” I reply, grabbing a skillet. I drizzle the olive oil into the pan just as I’ve watched Anton and John do all along, having taken their motions and saved them in a little recess in the back of my mind, like a sponge soaking up knowledge.

Abby doesn’t miss a beat, her hands working with a practiced rhythm as she finishes kneading the pasta dough and begins feeding it through the pasta machine. She shoots me a quick, conspiratorial glance that says we’ve got this in the bag, so long as we don’t have another sabotage on our hands.

“Make sure those mushrooms are golden, Ken,” she says. “They need to be perfect.”

I nod, adjusting the flame. “On it, Chef.”

Her laugh crackles across our station. “‘Chef,’” she says. “I like when you call me that.”

But then, her hands move over the mafaldine, her attention back on the pasta. “We’’l need the truffles soon,” she says. “Can you grab them?”

“Coming right up,” I say, although the mushrooms demand my focus for a few moments longer. They’re browning nicely, the nutty aroma mixing with the sweet scent of the saffron.

Satisfied, I turn down the heat and take a step away from the stove, wiping my hands on the towel that’s slung over my shoulder. “I’ll grab the truffles now."

As I make my way to the pantry, I can't help but feel the prickling sensation of being on the cusp of victory. Abby is bound to win this, I’m sure of it. The second round was a bit of a bust, but lady luck is on our side right now.

But then, the door to the pantry swings open, and that’s when I see him—Daniel’s sous chef, truffles in hand, and a conspiratorial look in his eyes.

“Hey!” I bark out before I can think better of it. The man startles, knocking a container of herbs off the shelf. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He’s cornered, like a mouse caught by a cat, and there’s no mistaking the flush of guilt that spreads across his face. His hands clutch a container, the label reading ‘black truffles,’ but the contents... they look all wrong. Not at all like the truffles that Abby and I risked our lives to find.

The sous chef scrambles for words, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “I—uh…”

“Those aren’t the black truffles, you little snake.” My voice is low, almost a growl. I take a step closer, the intensity of the competition and my desire for Abby to win fuelling my anger.

He shifts where he’s standing, his eyes flitting desperately toward the door. “Look, I—”

“You’re tampering with the ingredients, aren’t you?” I hiss, taking another step forward. “Go on, spit it out.”

His eyes dart from side to side. “No, look, I—”

“Trying to give Abby another handicap, are you?” I ask. “Just like you did in the second round, when you swapped her spices around?”

“I swear, it’s not how it looks,” he stammers, his eyes darting down to the container as if it might offer some sort of escape.

“I don’t believe you,” I say, outstretching my hand. “Give me the real truffles. Now.”

He hesitates, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. “I can’t—”

“Can’t… or won’t?” I take another step closer, invading his space, showing him that I won’t be brushed aside. “We need those truffles for our dish. Either hand the right ones over now, or I’ll tell everyone—on live television—that you and Daniel are a couple of little rats who don’t belong here.”

His gaze finally breaks from mine, looking at anything but my face. “I was just checking something,” he says, his voice so low it’s a whisper.

“Oh, you were ‘checking something?’” I echo, my tone chalk full of disbelief. “By switching labels and possibly ruining our dish? Hm?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, the perfect picture of guilt.

“I was just…” He stammers, his voice trailing off.

I can’t take it anymore. I’m getting those truffles—the real black truffles, the ones that are balled up in his filthy little hand, about to be slipped into his pocket—for Abby, one way or another.

Without entirely thinking of a plan, I find myself lurching forward, fueled by anger and the adrenaline of the competition, and snatch the truffles out of his hand.

“You’re cheating!” I call out, loud enough for the others to hear. “Did Daniel put you up to this?”

But then, as the truffles come into my possession, the sous chef’s face morphs into something unreadable, and suddenly, he’s cradling his wrist, howling in pain.

“You wrenched my wrist! You hurt me!” he cries out.

I stand there, truffles in hand, shocked. “I did no such thing! I didn’t even touch you!”

His cries echo off the pantry walls, drawing eyes toward us like moths to a flame. The room falls deathly silent, save for his accusations. The camera swivels in our direction, eager to capture this drama for live television.

“Look, everyone, I didn’t touch him! He’s lying!” I protest, holding out the truffles as evidence of his deceit. “He was swapping the ingredients. He took the black truffles and—”

But it’s too late; the narrative has shifted, and I can see it in the way their eyes change, how the whispers are starting to spread. The sous chef howls even louder, gripping his wrist as his face turns beet red.

“Ow! Owww!” he wails, pacing back and forth. “God, I think he sprained my wrist! Ow!”

A security guard, a hulking figure of authority, steps forward. “Sir, you need to come with me,” he says, jerking his head toward me.

Abby’s face, once flushed with the heat of cooking, blanches as she witnesses the scene. “Karl, what’s going on?” Her voice, filled with disbelief, reaches me even as I’m ushered away from the scene by the security guard.

“I never touched him, Abby! He’s faking it!” The desperation in my voice does nothing to change the unfolding events.

But the sous chef only continues his theatrics, his voice reaching a crescendo of feigned agony. “My wrist, I can’t believe he just attacked me! He’s violent! An animal!”

I turn back to Abby, the only person who might believe me. “They’re trying to sabotage us! He swapped the truffles. The labels…” My words tumble out in a rush, hoping desperately that she can hear me, but she’s too far away now, and I know she can’t.

The security guard’s grip is firm on my arm, unyielding. “Let’s not make a scene, sir,” he says.

“A scene? He made the scene! Look at the truffles!” I point toward the pantry, but it’s no use. No one is listening to me. Why would they? They just think I’m an animal, violent, an asshole who attacked an innocent man over mushrooms.

Abby’s eyes, wide and filled with a cocktail of confusion and fear, stay locked on mine as I’m pulled away.

The last thing I see before turning the corner is the sous chef, and beside him is Daniel. And that glint in Daniel’s eyes as his gaze meets mine… I know it all too well.

Sabotage.