Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 162

Abby

The moment Mr. Thompson utters the words, the whole world seems to stop. I’m still sitting at my desk in my cluttered little office, but I feel as though I’ve been launched into outer space; it’s like that feeling in a dream when you suddenly fall from an impossible height, only to wake up just before you hit the ground.

“Are you... are you serious?” I manage, gripping the edge of my desk to steady myself.

His smile is as reassuring as ever. “Of course, I am, Abby. You think I would joke about something like this?”

It’s hard to breathe. After everything, as though some sort of unseen force suddenly decided to make things right, they want me to cater the Alpha party. Me. Abby. The girl who lost the cook-off miserably on live television. The girl who was sabotaged by a male chef.

“Listen,” Mr. Thompson says, “Vanessa Greene asked to give you another chance. And after what happened… You deserve it.”

My mind feels blown again. Vanessa Greene? As in, my biggest idol, Vanessa Greene? All this time, I thought she looked down on me after the cook-off… And yet she was the one who advocated for me to have another chance?

“I... Mr. Thompson, I don’t know what to say,” I stammer, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Say you’ll do it, Abby. Say you’ll prepare a meal that’ll knock their socks off,” he says, his eyes twinkling with encouragement.

“But what if... what if my food still isn’t good enough?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and my voice quivers slightly, betraying the storm of emotions roiling inside of me.

Mr. Thompson’s expression softens, and he places a hand on my shoulder, grounding me in this moment. “Abby, I’ve always believed in you. Your food has that special something—you’ve got the talent. Don’t let one setback make you doubt yourself.”

I take a deep breath. His faith in me is a comfort. “Okay,” I say with a nod. “I’ll do it.”

Mr. Thompson grins. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Now, listen—they want you to prepare the meals in front of them. In your kitchen.”

My eyes widen. “Here? In the restaurant?”

He nods. “Yes. I assume that won’t be a problem for you…?”

My restaurant kitchen; the place I haven’t set foot in for the past two weeks. Just the thought of going in there makes me sick, but if it means catering the Alpha party, if it means proving Daniel and all of the other men who doubted me wrong, then it looks like I have no choice.

“Okay,” I murmur. “My kitchen. I can do that.”

Mr. Thompson’s grin widens. “That’s the spirit! We’ll set everything up for this coming Saturday. It’ll be a private meal, just you and the judges. You show them what you’re capable of, and that party is yours to cater.”

Saturday. It feels both like an eternity away and as if it’s looming over me, ready to pounce at any moment.

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. For believing in me, for giving me this chance,” I say, my voice thick with emotions I can’t quite give a name to.

He stands. “You’ve earned it, Abby. And remember, it’s Vanessa herself who insisted. After she learned about the sabotage, she wouldn’t rest until you were given a fair shot. She’s tough, but she respects talent and honesty,” he says, offering a nod of approval that makes something inside of me feel just a little bit lighter.

I can’t believe it. I’m about to be given a chance to redeem myself, to prove that the disaster wasn’t my fault, to show everyone what I’m really made of. The thought sends a mix of dread and determination coursing through me.

Mr. Thompson leaves then, and I’m alone with my whirling thoughts. My office somehow feels more stuffy now, and I stand abruptly, grabbing my bag. I have to head home. I need to think. I need to breathe.

I’ll have to be at my best on Saturday, to cook like I’ve never cooked before. I’ll need to plan a menu that showcases not just my skills but my spirit. And I’ll have to pour every ounce of passion I have onto those plates.

Saturday. The judges. My kitchen.

I can do this. I hope.

…

As I step into my kitchen—my home kitchen, rather than my restaurant kitchen—I stop for a moment, taking in the mess.

Takeout food containers are stacked by the trash can. The counter, rather than being cluttered with cooking utensils, is covered in junk mail and empty drink glasses. The sink is full, and yet I haven’t cooked a goddamn thing since I lost the cook-off.

Two weeks.

It’s been two whole weeks since I’ve cooked anything more complex than toast in here. And now, with the chance to cater the Alpha party, my mind is foggier than ever. I can’t even come up with a menu, something that would have popped into my mind in an instant two weeks ago.

I need to research. That’s what I’ll do: I’ll research. I’m definitely not procrastinating, right?

Dragging my feet to the counter, I pull open my laptop. Maybe the internet will inspire some brilliance. The keys feel cool under my fingers, and the screen blinks to life, brightening the dimly lit room.

Clicking through recipes, my eyes glaze over. Fusion? Too risky. Classic French? Too expected.

Every idea feels either too bold or too safe, and there’s no in-between. I tap my finger on the counter, growing impatient by the second.

And then, out of nowhere, a memory notification pops up. A photo from a time when everything seemed brighter and simpler. My eyes widen as I enlarge it, and my hand instinctively moves over my mouth.

There’s Karl and me, standing amidst the glitter and glow of a Alpha party from four years ago. He looks as handsome as ever in his black tuxedo, his smile as wide as it possibly can be, and there I am, leaning into him, my dark green dress elegant and hugging my curves in all the right places.

I can almost hear the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the soft swell of music. That night, I was so proud to be on his arm, so naive to how it would all unravel.

That was before…

For a moment, I’m back there, under the fairy lights, the air filled with the scent of champagne and perfume. I can still feel his hand on my waist, the way we swayed together to the soft pop music.

But fairy lights go out, and promises break. My hand twitches toward my phone, itching to call him. I want to hear his voice, tell him what happened today. Maybe he’ll have some ideas. Hell, maybe he’ll want to come back and be my sous chef one last time before the Alpha party.

But no. I can’t. This is a line I won’t cross, a bridge that has long since burned. With a quiet curse under my breath, I snap my laptop shut and stand so abruptly that my kitchen stool scrapes abrasively against the floor.

The urge to call him is strong, but I’m stronger. I made a promise to myself two weeks ago: that I would put the past behind me once and for all. Behind us. Not just for me, but for him, too.

I won’t drag him into my struggles again, not when he’s got his status as Alpha to worry about, and especially not when he’s mad at me.

Deciding to leave the kitchen a mess for now, I flick the light off and retreat. There will be no cooking tonight, even though Saturday is only four days away.