Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 174

Abby

I shuffle from one foot to the other, still shocked by Karl’s sudden appearance. But the flowers in my hand are grounding, like a lifeline.

“Are you sure about this?” I find myself asking. “Your Alpha duties… You’ve already given up so much to help me. I don’t want to jeopardize your status or anything.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Abby, I told you, it was just an event. Besides, I think you could use the help, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

I suck in a breath. He’s right; I do need help and I don’t want to admit it, but it still feels wrong to make him be the one to help me yet again. “But if you’re here, you need to be here because you want to be, not because you feel like you owe me something,” I finally say.

His smile is genuine. “I’m here because I want to be. Enough said.”

I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing ever so slightly. “Okay, but I have to make this up to you somehow. I can cater an event for you, for free,” I offer, hoping it’s enough to make this all worthwhile for him in one way or another.

He shakes his head, and there’s a softness in his eyes that makes me pause. “Abby, that’s nice of you, but you don’t have to do that. I’m here as your friend. That’s it.”

The word friend lodges itself in my throat. It both soothes and stings. I nod, unable to voice the gratitude and the myriad of other tangled emotions.

Together, we start to tackle the apartment, picking up scattered cookbooks, aligning shoes by the door, fluffing cushions and folding blankets.

I grab the vacuum out of the closet and get to work on the carpets. Meanwhile, Karl picks up a stack of unopened mail, a frown momentarily creasing his brow. “You haven’t opened these.”

I shrug, not meeting his gaze. “Bills and junk. It’s not like they’re love letters.”

“Could be a check in there,” he teases, but there’s a note of concern.

“It’s fine, Karl. Just... stuff I didn’t have the energy for.”

He nods. I can tell that there’s more he wants to say, questions he wants to ask, but he’s clearly chosen to let it go. And I’m grateful for that. I don’t want to admit to my depression, my wallowing, my fear of setting foot into my own kitchen.

We work for a while longer, eventually moving to the more tedious task: cleaning the kitchen.

“You know,” Karl starts, breaking our comfortable silence as he wipes down the counter, “I always thought you had a nice place here.”

I laugh, feeling a bit surprised. “You really thought that? You sure you’re not just pitying me for not living in your mansion with you anymore?”

He chuckles, throwing the paper towel into the trash. “I don’t pity you. It’s cozy in here. If anything, I pity myself, living in that sprawling mansion all alone.”

That sprawling mansion. It was once my home. Our home. I do miss it sometimes, no matter how much I like it here. But I won’t admit it, not now, at least. “Thanks,” I say, managing a smile. “That means a lot.”

The conversation lulls as we continue, and soon, the apartment is about as presentable as it’ll get. We pause for a moment and look at our handiwork, at the tidy living room, the spotless kitchen, the perfectly-set table with the white tulips as the new centerpiece.

But I can’t spend long admiring. The judges will be here soon, and my pulse quickens at the thought. “I should probably shower and get dressed,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

“Yeah,” Karl agrees, “but you’ve done good here, Abby. The place looks great. Really.”

I glance around, the apartment now a far cry from the disarray he walked into. “Thanks. It’s… better. Thank you for helping.”

He nods. “Of course. I said I would, wouldn’t I?”

“Okay, I’ll... get ready then. You’ll be okay out here?”

Karl waves a hand dismissively. “Go ahead. You got a mirror somewhere so I can get to work on…” He gestures to himself, to his tousled hair, his white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “...This?”

I nod and point to the hallway. “There’s a full-length mirror over there. Good luck.”

He grins. “Same to you.”

…

The steam curls around me and smooths away my tense muscles. It’s funny how I never realize how badly I need a hot shower until I’m finally in it, and now I don’t want to get out. But once my body is washed and my hair is shampooed, I don’t have much more time. With a reluctant sigh, I finally turn off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around me.

First, I get started on my hair. The sound of the blowdryer fills the bathroom as I get to work, running a brush through it until it’s all dry. Then, I pull it back into a neat bun that sits at the nape of my neck. Have to make sure no hairs get in the food, so I slick it down with a tiny bit of gel, both to make it look sleek and keep it in place.

Next, I slip into my chef’s whites, which I had professionally cleaned just for today. They’re a bit too crisp against my skin, but they look nice. I slip into a pair of comfortable loafers, then glance in the mirror.

Looks good. Now, makeup.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, and that’s when the memories of the cook-off return. The thick foundation, the dramatic eyes, and lips painted a bright shade of red. False lashes, too, which I remember being horribly uncomfortable when I cried.

My hand freezes as I’m about to reach into my makeup bag for my foundation.

Do I want this? To cake my face, to place the focus of tonight on my appearance rather than my abilities and my professionalism? To feel uncomfortable, like I’m wearing a mask?

Or do I just want to be me? Abby. The chef, the restaurant owner, the woman with smile lines and a tiny hint of crow’s feet beginning to show at the corners of my eyes. The woman who has been dragged through hell and back for her craft.

A woman. Not a doll.

I shake my head and zip my makeup bag shut. I choose the latter when it comes to my cooking. Tonight isn’t about a perfect face or long lashes. It’s about cooking the best damn meal those judges have ever tasted. And I don’t need lipstick to do that.

As I step out of my room, the air suddenly feels a few degrees cooler. Karl meets my gaze, and for a moment, time seems to stop.

He’s standing in the living room, his hands in his pockets. He’s ditched his tuxedo jacket and tie, opting instead for just his crisp white shirt. He smoothed it down and rolled the sleeves more neatly, and although he’s not in chef’s whites like me, he looks good.

Really good.

He looks at me, longer than perhaps either of us expect, and when his smile widens, it’s as if he’s sharing a secret joke between old friends.

“You look perfect in your chef’s coat, Abby,” he says, and his voice is soft.

I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks, but I don’t bother to hide the tinge of red that begins to spread across my face.

“Thank you, Karl,” I manage, voice steady even though my heart is pounding a mile a minute in my chest. “You look perfect, too.”

We look at each other for a moment longer, the silence only punctuated by the sound of soft jazz music playing on the speakers—he must have picked it out while I was in the shower, and it’s a nice touch.

And then, like clockwork the moment the hour hand meets 7:00, it happens.

The doorbell rings. The judges have arrived.