Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 178

Abby

Six years ago.

The stainless steel countertops gleamed under the harsh lighting of the culinary school kitchen as I plated my dish with trembling hands. The scent of my creation, a painstaking fusion of herbs and spices, wafted tantalizingly through the air—but I had no appetite.

My gaze flickered across the room, landing on the stern face of Professor Hawthorne, who punctuated the silence with the scribbles on his notepad and the clicking of his shoes on the tile floor.

“Time,” he called out, his voice cutting through the flurry of student activity.

The room went still as Professor Hawthorne began his rounds. His critiques were always light, allowing plenty of room for improvement. As he made his way past each station, the students let out sighs of relief at his gentle encouragement.

And yet, he was never like that with me.

“Overcooked,” he pronounced after no more than a nibble of my carefully crafted dish. “And the balance of flavors is off. This is a cooking class, not an exercise in mediocrity, Abby.”

I felt my cheeks flush with a mixture of anger and embarrassment as I watched him jot down notes. The silence that followed his departure from my station felt like a heavy weight on my shoulders, and although I wanted nothing more than to retort, it was as if my voice was stolen from me.

He moved on, praising Jackson’s seared salmon, gushing over Sophia’s perfect risotto. Their success stories felt like stabs to my gut. Why was he always criticizing me so heavily when everyone else received praise?

The bell rang. As the other students left, chatting and laughing happily over their passing grades, I lingered, my gaze locked on the dish that had so thoroughly failed to impress. I got a C-. Barely passing. To me, it might as well have been a colossal failure.

Once I was finally alone in the hallway, I sank to the floor, my back against the cool tile wall beneath the stairwell.

“Dammit,” I murmured, blinking away the tears that threatened to come. “Another horrible grade.” I crumpled up my results and tossed them into a nearby trash can.

That was exactly where he found me, the one person who caused all of this. His shadow fell over me like an eclipse.

“Miss Abby, what seems to be the problem?” Professor Hawthorne's voice was devoid of its usual sharpness, but I couldn’t look at him.

I glared up through watery eyes, my voice coming out sharper than I intended.

“What do you think the problem is? You nearly failed me, again! Even when I pour my soul into my cooking, it’s like you hate everything I do. You never critique the others like you critique me!”

Even I was shocked by my own words. It was as if they tumbled out all at once, like they couldn’t be contained any longer.

He regarded me for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, he crouched down to my level, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I know I’m hard on you, Abby. It’s because you can do better. You have enormous potential, but you’re not reaching it.”

His words left me reeling. He had never hinted at believing in me, not once.

“Potential?” I echoed, disbelief lacing my voice. “Then why do I feel like you’re trying to sabotage me?”

Hawthorne sighed, a rare show of kindness in his stern demeanor. “I push you because I see what you could be, not what you are. I won’t apologize for that.”

But his cryptic acknowledgment of my abilities did nothing to ease the sting of his constant disapproval. Standing up, I wiped my face with the back of my hand, determination drying my tears.

“Fine. I’ll show you potential.”

The next class was a blur, a night spent practicing and perfecting every detail of my dish. I barely slept, too busy researching, practicing, imagining Professor Hawthorne’s praises when I really aced it and showed him what I was made of.

When it was time to present, I stood by my dish, my heart hammering against my ribcage, as Professor Hawthorne approached.

The silence stretched on for what felt like forever. I watched him closely, searching for any sign of approval.

Then he spoke, so quietly I almost didn’t catch it.

“A+.”

That was all he said before he moved on, leaving me feeling like I was lost in a void.

The other students glanced at me, their eyes wide, whispering. I had my A+, the recognition I had craved, but it came with a hollowness in my chest.

Why did his praise just feel like another form of punishment?

…

The room falls silent, save for the subtle sounds of spoons clicking against ceramic as the judges take their first bites. Karl and I sit beside each other, but I’m too nervous to try my own souffle.

This is the final moment, after all. This could be make-or-break; and with Logan’s slow praise, I can’t help but worry if I’ll wind up catering the Alpha party at the end of it all.

Then, finally, Vanessa speaks.

“Abby… You were right.” She pauses, slowly setting down her spoon as a look of wonder crosses her features. “I haven’t had a good souffle since I was a little girl. But you… you changed that.”

I nod, blinking quickly to dispel the tears of happiness that threaten to come. “Thank you so much, Vanessa,” I manage. “I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

Across the table, Xavier’s chuckle is warm and encouraging. “To our liking? My dear, you’ve outdone yourself. The balance, the texture—it’s exceptional.”

My eyes drift to Karl, who is quiet; but his gaze says it all. Beneath the table, his leg moves almost imperceptibly, and his knee brushes mine. It sends a shock through my body.

But then, Logan’s fork clinks against his plate, a sound that feels too loud in this space. I watch him from the corner of my eye. His face is inscrutable again.

Vanessa's smile is soft around the edges as she turns to me again. “Abby, where do you find your inspiration for these marvelous dishes?”

“My inspiration?” I manage, biting my lower lip. “Um… Everywhere, really. My friends, my family, the world around me.”

“And this dish in particular?” Xavier asks.

That’s when I glance at Karl again. His gaze is as steady as a rock in a stream, unmoving, always there. It grounds me in a way that I needed, and I can’t stop the words from tumbling out like the water that moves through the stream.

“Ken…” I use his pseudonym again, although his real name almost slips out on instinct. “He taught me how to make a phenomenal souffle. I owe it to him.”

Karl’s eyes glint as I speak. I can tell that he’s taken aback by my candidness. All I can do is smile at him, warmth emanating from my gaze.

“Well,” Vanessa chimes in, “Ken…” She raises her glass. “Thank you for introducing this dish to Abby.”

I manage a tight-lipped smile, even as my gaze flicks to Logan again. He’s still silent, unmoving, and hasn’t taken more than one bite of his souffle.

“And Logan?” Vanessa prompts as though sensing the tension. “What are your thoughts on Abby’s souffle? You’ve been quiet.”

All eyes shift to Logan. He stares down at the barely-touched souffle on his plate, and I wish that I could just crawl inside of his mind and figure out what he’s really thinking. But I can’t.

All I can do is hold my breath… and wait.