Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 392

Abby

Smoothing down my chef’s coat, I carefully step out into the dining area. I’m met with the sound of a bustling, happy restaurant—a sound that should make me elated, but right now, it just adds to my worry.

“He’s over there,” Daisy murmurs in my ear. She nods her head toward a man who’s sitting by himself at a corner table. He’s sitting with his back turned to me, wearing a crisp tweed jacket. Even from where I’m standing, I can see him writing furiously in a notepad.

Taking a deep breath, I walk up to the man and clear my throat.

“Good evening, sir,” I say. “I’m Abby, the head chef and owner of the establishment. You wished to speak with me?”

The man slowly turns. His gaze, cold and calculated despite the warm brown color of his eyes, seems to appraise me as he scans me up and down. It becomes obvious to me at this moment that he didn’t exactly call me out here to compliment the chef.

“Ah, Abby,” he says coolly. “My name is Alfred; I am a local food critic.”

“Nice to meet you, Alfred,” I say with a forced smile, bowing my head slightly. “How can I help you?”

“I’ll cut straight to the chase.” He sits up a little and straightens his bowtie, although it was obviously impeccably straight already, giving him an air of fastidiousness. “I have some… complaints.”

“Complaints?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Was your food not to your liking?”

Alfred scoffs. “Not at all, actually. It’s bland and boring—quite possibly the most tasteless meal I have ever eaten. Not to mention that the wait was long and the service is rather sub-par.”

I blink, unsure of how to process this long list of complaints. I take a quick glance at his plate, and see that he’s ordered the margherita pizza with a shrimp salad on the side and a glass of white wine.

“I’m… so sorry to hear that, Alfred,” I say. “I—”

“I really expected better than whatever this garbage is,” he says, shoving his plate away so forcefully it causes me to jump a bit. “It seems as though your reputation as a master chef was merely hearsay, just as I suspected.”

Suddenly, I hear rapid footsteps approaching. I turn to see Karl headed toward me, his gaze fixed angrily on Alfred.

“That’s no way to speak to the future queen,” he begins. “How rude—”

“Karl.”

I quickly turn and place my hand on his chest, stopping him before he can take this any further. He blinks at me, clearly not expecting me to step in the way.

“I’ve got this,” I whisper, managing a soft smile. “It’s alright.”

Karl takes in a deep breath as he looks at me. I see his eyes dart behind me at Alfred before meeting my gaze again. “You’re sure?” he mouths.

I nod. “Positive. I’ll come talk to you in the kitchen.”

With one last moment of hesitation, Karl turns on his heel and stiffly stalks away. When I turn back to face Alfred again, the cold food critic is smirking at me.

“Calling in the cavalry over a little constructive criticism?” he asks. “I’ve seen you two on the television; I know your deal. You’re not going to have your so-called ‘sous chef’ beat me up like he did during the cook-off, are you?”

Constructive criticism. The words almost make me laugh. This man is attacking me, my character, my restaurant, and my mate. I’d hardly call it constructive.

But still, years of running a restaurant has prepared me for this. I straighten my posture, my eyes flickering up momentarily to see the others standing and watching me by the kitchen door: Chloe, Leah, Ethan, Daisy, John, Anton, and even Karl.

They’re all watching, waiting to see what happens with bated breath.

“I’m very sorry to hear that your experience this evening was not up to your expectations, sir,” I say as politely as possible, even managing a cordial smile at the critic. “Is there anything I can do to make things right for you?”

The critic blinks up at me for a moment; he clearly wasn’t expecting me to handle this situation so well. Perhaps, with his sour attitude, he’s used to causing chefs to break down or lash out over his so-called ‘constructive criticism’.

But not me. If I made it through the cook-off and the Alpha gathering debacle, I can make it through one cruel food critic.

“Well then,” he says, straightening his bowtie for a second time already. “I suppose there is a way to… make things right, as you say.”

“Your wish is my command,” I say with a grin.

Alfred seems to think for a few moments, once again solidifying the fact that he wasn’t expecting this. But then, an evil smile begins to spread across his lips.

“I want the farro mafaldine with black truffle butter and mushrooms.”

My eyes widen. That dish… I haven’t made it since the cook-off, and truthfully, I never wanted to make it again. I don’t even have black truffles at my disposal right now.

“Alfred,” I say, swallowing, “I’m afraid I can’t—”

“I came here because of your performance during the cook-off,” he says calmly, checking his nails. “And your truffle dish was the star of the show, was it not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Look,” he interrupts, “I run the most influential food column in this region. One bad review is all it takes for a restaurant, even one so highly-anticipated as yours, to go belly up. You don’t want that to happen, Abby. I know you don’t. So make me the black truffle dish, or I’ll publish everything I’ve written down here tonight.”

As he speaks, he taps his fingers on his notepad. Even from where I’m standing, I can see snippets of what’s written there: nothing but complaints, some of them even untruthful.

Once again, I glance up at my friends, who are still all watching nervously from the sidelines. I realize at this moment that I can’t disappoint them.

“Very well, then,” I say with an air of confidence that I don’t entirely feel right now. “But I should warn you, it may take a while.”

Alfred shrugs and leans back in his chair. “I’ll be here all night if need be.”

With that, I turn on my heel and make my way back to the kitchen. I push through the group of onlookers, and they follow me into the kitchen. Only then do I finally let out the breath that I didn’t realize I’ve been holding and clutch at my head frantically, whirling around to face them.

“What is it?” Anton asks. “What did he say?”

“The black truffle dish,” I say. “The one from the cook-off. He wants it, or he’s going to publish a horrible column about us.”

Everyone looks at one another, their eyes wide with shock. We’re all clearly on the same page: that this is an impossible feat that I just accepted. I don’t even know if black truffles are in season, let alone available around here.

But when I look over at Karl, I don’t see the fear that’s in everyone else’s eyes. All I see is determination as he pushes up his sleeves and tightens his red bandana.

“Well, Abby?” he says. “Ready for another truffle hunt?”