Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 160

Abby

As soon as the door opens and Mr. Thompson’s figure appears in the doorway, my heart jumps into my throat.

A palpable wave of embarrassment washes over me; I’m suddenly painfully aware of my disheveled appearance.

My hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few stray locks defiantly escaping, and my clothes are not the crisp, chef whites that once defined my professional persona but rather a loose sweater and jeans combo that screams “I’ve given up on the kitchen.”

“Mr. Thompson, uh, hello,” I stammer, standing up from my chair so abruptly it screeches against the floor.

“Hello, Abby,” Mr. Thompson says.

I swallow. What is he doing here? “Please, come in.” I gesture towards the chair opposite my cluttered desk, hastily shoving papers into piles to create a semblance of order.

He steps inside, his gaze sweeping the room—the piles of paperwork, the empty coffee cups, the trash can overflowing with discarded papers and junk mail—with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asks, his gaze finally settling on me once more.

I shake my head vehemently. “No, I…” I pause, clearing my throat as my gaze falls onto a particular spot on my desk where I spilled coffee yesterday and never cleaned it up; it’s sticky and sweet-smelling, with rings on the papers where I set the cup down. “I was just doing some paperwork.”

Mr. Thompson holds my gaze for a moment. There’s a knowing look in his eyes, but there’s something else there, too. Something that almost borders on regret.

“Well,” he says, “there’s something I need to speak to you about. It’s actually quite urgent, so I hope you don’t mind that I decided to come here in person rather than call or send an email.”

His seriousness takes me by surprise. Mr. Thompson was always professional, but typically jovial at the same time aside from the reporter incident. Now, though, his face is an unreadable mask.

A twist of anxiety knots in my stomach, and I find myself motioning to the seat again. “Of course. Please, sit.”

He does, and the air between us is charged with a quiet intensity. He’s holding something, I notice: a DVD case. It’s unmarked.

I try to smooth down my sweater, a futile attempt at pulling myself together, as I settle back into my own chair. “Is that for me?” I ask, nodding toward the DVD.

“It is,” he confirms. “There’s something you need to see.”

My curiosity peaks. “What is it?”

He hands me the DVD, and I notice that his hands are shaking ever so slightly. “It’s footage from the night of the competition. From the security cameras.”

I feel a chill, despite the warmth of the office. “Security cameras?” My voice echoes a mix of confusion and a touch of fear. “Why? What’s on them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead looking at me with a solemn expression that makes my hands involuntarily tighten around the plastic case. “I think it’s best if you watch it.”

Nodding, more out of reflex than understanding, I turn to my computer and fumble for a moment with the DVD drive—something that I haven’t used in ages on this computer. The soft click of the disk sliding in feels oddly discomforting, and I find myself running through the day of the competition, trying to figure out if I did or said something that I shouldn’t have.

There was the argument with Daniel, of course. I almost slapped him for his cruel words, but I never did. Surely he can’t press charges for that.

Unless… Is it about Karl and Daniel’s sous chef?

“Should I be worried?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I’m not entirely sure if I want to know the answer.

“Just watch,” he says, nodding his head toward my computer screen.

The footage begins, and the scene comes to life in front of my eyes.

It’s the morning of the cook-off, the prep time that I missed in the morning. The contestants are busy chatting, chopping, and rearranging while various staff wander around the stage, finishing up last-minute tasks. My station is empty, of course, because I wasn’t there yet.

But then, there’s Daniel. During a lull in the conversation, he meanders his way over to my station. He stands there for a moment, stretching and looking around nonchalantly, but I can see it: the way he’s glancing over his shoulders, the tiny glass bottle he sneakily slips out of his pocket and places on my spice rack.

Then, just as quickly as he placed the first bottle down, he grabs another—one from my rack this time—and slips that one into his pocket. Checking over his shoulders one last time, he walks away.

“What is he doing?” I whisper, leaning closer to watch the footage again.

Mr. Thompson’s voice is hardly more than a whisper too. “He’s swapping your spices, Abby. Just like you said.”

For a moment, it feels as though the room has suddenly flipped upside down. I’m at a loss for words. All I can do is stare at Mr. Thompson, unblinking, my eyes wide.

“Keep watching,” he says, nodding his head toward the screen again. “There’s more.”

My body feels stiff, but I do as he says. The screen jumps forward, and it’s the moment when Karl ran to the pantry to get the black truffles.

Time feels like it’s standing still. Karl freezes in the pantry in a showdown of wills against Daniel’s sous chef.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see everything; the other sous chef with his hand in the container of black truffles. He’s dropping something inside, something that looks a whole hell of a lot different from the actual black truffles, which are in his other hand.

Karl says something. He points, then holds out his hand, palm facing up. The other sous chef shakes his head and says something else, and then…

Karl steps forward, taking the real black truffles from the sous chef. That’s when all hell breaks loose.

The other sous chef stands there for a moment, his eyes searching Karl. And then, suddenly, he grips his wrist out of nowhere and begins to wail. Karl looks around frantically, confused, and now I can see why.

Karl was right; he never touched the sous chef. He only took the truffles from him in an attempt to reveal the sabotage that was occurring. And yet, the security guards dragged him away, and the container of ‘black truffles’ was left untouched, with the wrong mushrooms inside.

The video ends and there’s a lengthy silence in the room. My hand is clamped over my mouth, my eyes wide with shock.

“He… He did sabotage me after all,” I finally manage, my voice trembling. “And Karl never touched him.”

Mr. Thompson nods, the lines of his face easing ever so slightly. “Yes,” he says, leaning forward a little, his eyes trained on me. “And Daniel has been expelled from catering for the Alpha party. His status as winner was revoked.”

I swallow, still unsure of what exactly Mr. Thompson is trying to say. Did he only come here to prove my suspicions, or is it something else?

“What are you trying to say?” I murmur, my eyes leveling with his.

Mr. Thompson looks at me for a moment. His eyes seem to shift, his expression changing from an unreadable mask to a sparkle beneath the surface that wasn’t there before.

“Abby,” he says, leaning forward a little more, “I’m here to ask you if you will cater the Alpha party after all.”