Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 159

Abby

The smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries fills the air as I step into the brunch spot where Chloe, Lea and I meet up once a week. It’s been a tradition of ours for years, and I’m glad to have things back to normal now that the cook-off is over

Normal.

The word feels foreign. After losing the cook-off, followed by Karl’s departure, ‘normal’ feels like something strangely new now. It’s weird how things can go precisely back to the way they were before, only for it to feel entirely different than ever.

It’s been two weeks since Karl left and since I lost the cook-off, and time feels like it’s both standing still and moving too fast all at once.

I feel like I’m lost in a mountain of paperwork and managerial duties, half-finished wine bottles and crumpled books. Right now, my life feels unendingly, irrevocably boring.

And maybe ‘boring’ is exactly what I need right now.

“Hey, Abby, over here!” Chloe’s voice cuts through the low hum of chatter and clinking silverware. I wave, spotting her and Leah at our usual table by the wide bay window.

As I navigate my way through the tables, I rehearse my spiel in my head—because I know they’ll ask. I haven’t set foot in the kitchen for more than five minutes at a time in the past two weeks. Instead, I’ve been occupying myself with managerial duties at the restaurant, spending the days in my office.

I know that they’re worried about me. It’s probably why they reinstated our brunch tradition—as an intervention of sorts. But I can’t go back to the kitchen, not now. Maybe not ever.

I slide into the booth, offering a weak smile. “Morning, you two.”

Leah’s eyes are warm but searching as she looks up from her menu. “How are you holding up? With the Alpha party coming up, I imagine Karl’s been on your mind.”

I stir my coffee, amazed at my friends’ inability to give me a moment to breathe before the probing begins. “I’ve been busy, you know, with the restaurant. Karl’s got his own life, and I’ve got mine. So, you know, he’s not on my mind. Not at all, actually.”

Chloe frowns slightly, the way she does when she suspects I’m lying, which I am. “He hasn’t tried to contact you?” she asks.

The question lingers in the air, heavy and unwanted. The last time I spoke to Karl was the morning after our almost-hookup. I can still feel the sensation of his fingers on the small of my back, his breath on my ear.

“No,” I say, setting down my spoon with a clink. “He hasn’t. And why would he? We’re both busy people.”

I can tell they’re not convinced. Chloe and Leah exchange a glance before Leah reaches across the table, her touch gentle on my hand. “You know, Abby, it’s okay to miss him. And it’s okay to be upset about the cook-off.”

I retract my hand, wrapping it around my mug instead. “Honestly, guys, I’m fine. I’m just... reassessing things, you know?”

“Reassessing?” Chloe says. “Is that your new term for hiding in your office and refusing to cook? Reassessing?”

A frown crosses my face. “I’m not hiding, nor am I refusing anything. But, you know… maybe the kitchen isn’t my calling. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and—”

“But you love cooking,” Leah interrupts with her eyes wide.

I laugh, but it’s a hollow sound. “Loved, as in past tense. After the cook-off, I think my cooking has taken a hit. Maybe I’m not cut out for it after all.”

“That’s not true,” Leah insists. “Everyone has off days, off weeks... Hell, even off months! But it doesn’t mean you’ve lost your touch.”

Chloe nods emphatically. “Leah is right. You can'’ let one setback define you. And you were amazing at the cook-off, despite the mishaps. You have a gift, Abby.”

I shrug, avoiding their gazes as I take a sip of my coffee. “Maybe. But right now, I really am enjoying the managerial work. It’s less... chaotic. And I could use a little less chaos right now.”

“We just don’t want to see you give up on something you’re passionate about,” Chloe says, reaching for a croissant. “Not because of what happened or because of... Karl.”

The mention of his name like that makes my breath hitch. “I’m not giving up. I’m just exploring other parts of the business. And Karl has nothing to do with this decision.”

Leah gives me a sympathetic look. “You don’t have to put on a brave face for us, Abby. We’re your friends. We’re allowed to worry about you.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I know,” I murmur, “and I love you both for it. But really, I’m happy with where things are right now.”

Chloe’s gaze is piercing, and for a moment, I’m afraid she’ll see right through me like she did two weeks ago.

But she simply nods. “If you’re sure... But we’re here for you, no matter what. And this doesn’t mean the end of your culinary career. You could always come back to it when you’re ready.”

I nod, gripping my coffee cup a little tighter. “Exactly,” I said. “I just need some time. That’s all.”

…

It’s well past noon, and I’m fully immersed in a towering stack of paperwork. Inventory, supply orders, performance reviews, invoicing, payroll… All of it. It’s hellishly boring and tedious, but I’ve become used to it over the past few weeks.

Suddenly, however, there’s a knock on my office door.

“Come in,” I call out without looking up, expecting one of the servers with a minor crisis that’s easily solved from the confines of my desk.

But the door opens and instead, it’s John who stands in front of me. “Abby, could you come and check on something in the kitchen?”

I feel the color drain from my face, my heartbeat quickening at the thought of crossing that threshold again. “I-I can't, John,” I murmur, gesturing to the piles of papers on my desk. “Sorry. I’m swamped right now.”

He frowns. “But it’s about the braising technique for the short ribs—”

“I think Anton can handle that,” I cut in, maybe a little too quickly. “He’s been doing a great job, don’t you think?”

John’s brows furrow ever so slightly, and I can tell he’s not convinced. “Um… Okay, sure,” he says, though his tone suggests that there’s more he wants to say. “I’ll ask Anton, then.”

The door closes behind him, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

This whole avoidance tactic is starting to wear thin, and I know it. I lean back in my chair, feeling guilty for my so-called crimes. A chef belongs in the kitchen, I know that; but right now, I don’t feel much like a chef at all. Despite the hashtags, despite the support, I feel like a failure.

Shaking my head as if to dispel the thoughts, I return to my work. But I’m not working for long when another knock comes, sharp and urgent this time.

Annoyance instantly flares up in me as I picture John or Anton standing outside the door, poised to burst in here and drag me to the kitchen.

“I’m busy!” I call out, more harshly than I mean to.

But the door swings open regardless, and there he stands.

My eyes widen. “Mr. Thompson?”