Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 393

Abby

The small shop smells like old wood and rare spices as Karl and I step through the doors. We stop for a moment, glancing warily at one another.

“You’re sure this is the place?” I whisper.

Karl nods and checks the address that the local grocer wrote down for him on a slip of paper one last time. “This is it,” he says quietly.

We step further into the dimly lit shop and look around; there’s no shop attendant in sight, but this has to be the place. After a frantic trip to the grocery store, only to be directed here, to the local rare goods shop, this is our only other option to find black truffles for the dish that the critic demanded.

“Hello?” I call out.

“Hello!” a small voice replies. Karl and I exchange another glance as we both wonder where the voice came from, but then we see its source: a small-statured woman who is now peeking out from behind a tall shelf.

“Oh! Hello,” I say, taking a step forward. “Do you work here?”

“I own this shop,” she says with a smile, then glances at our chefs’ attire. “How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for black truffles.”

The woman’s eyes widen and she purses her lips. “Black truffles? I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I just sold my last batch a few days ago.”

Karl glances at me with worry in his expression. “You don’t have any?” he asks. “Look, Abby here just opened her restaurant, and a local food critic is demanding that she make a black truffle dish or else…”

“Is it Alfred Cunningham?” the woman asks, rolling her eyes. “He’s the worst.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. He was pretty demanding. He said that if I don’t make the dish, he’ll publish a column that will destroy my restaurant.”

“And he very well could.” The woman sighs and sets down the clipboard she’s been holding, tapping her chin as she thinks. “Alfred Cunningham is one of the most influential critics in this region, so I don’t blame you for being worried.”

I can’t help but draw in a sharp breath at her words. For a while I thought that maybe his threats were unfounded, but now it seems as though he wasn’t bluffing.

“Do you happen to know where we can get any black truffles?” I ask. “Please, it’s really important.”

The woman sighs, pushing a stray lock of curly brown hair behind her ear as she regards Karl and me. She seems to look us up and down, appraising us, before she seems to come to some sort of decision.

“I don’t do this often, but…” She grabs a piece of paper off of the counter and begins to write something down. “Here are the directions to where I usually find my black truffles.”

Karl and I both let out a sigh of relief at the same time. “Thank you so much,” I breathe. “We really appreciate it.”

The woman nods and holds out the paper, but then pauses before letting me take it. “Just promise you’ll only take what you need,” she says, eyeing us warily. “This is my livelihood.”

“As future king and queen of this region, you have our word,” Karl says.

“Good enough for me.” The woman grins and hands us the paper, upon which is written directions to a nearby forested area. “Good luck.”

…

As Karl and I carefully walk through the dense woods with only a flashlight and a hand-written list of directions to guide us, we keep our eyes peeled for any sign of black truffles.

“Funny how things come back around, isn’t it?” he asks as we walk.

I can’t help but laugh. “It sure is. I thought I’d never have to make this damned dish ever again.”

“And here we are,” Karl says, pulling aside some branches to look around for the rare mushrooms. “Hunting through the woods in a mad dash to find the truffles that nearly killed us last time.”

As we continue searching, I keep thinking back on our last harrowing hunt for black truffles; those poachers nearly shot us. Even now, I can still remember the sound of the bullets whizzing past my head, and the thuds they made when they careened into trees.

“We got really lucky,” I say. “If we had moved just a little slower, we would have been shot dead.”

“And we’re lucky that they never continued their hunt for us,” Karl says. “We did take a pretty sizable amount of their rarest mushrooms.”

“Yeah. We sure did.”

I pause, crouching to move aside a pile of damp leaves at the base of a large tree. There are mushrooms here, but not black truffles. “Damn,” I whisper, more to myself than to Karl. “No luck.”

Karl, overhearing me, perks his head up. “You know, it’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t get that dish tonight,” he says. “It’s a pretty unreasonable ask anyway.”

I frown. “But he could close my restaurant. Even the rare goods shop owner confirmed it.”

Karl sighs. “Abby, you’re the future queen here, and a culinary celebrity at this point,” he says. “It’s really him who should be worried about his career.”

Karl’s words are true; technically, we could end Alfred’s career in one fell swoop. And yet, at the same time, I know it’s not the right thing to do. I’d never want to use my power to bring someone else down. I never have, and I never will.

“But I don’t want that, Karl,” I say, standing. “I want to win this fair and squa—”

Suddenly, as I’m beginning to walk back over to Karl, my foot catches something in the dark—an exposed tree root. With a yelp, I begin toppling backwards, down a small slope. “Agh—Karl!” I cry out, reaching my hands out as I fall.

Karl gasps. There’s a flurry of activity around me as I begin to fall, and a searing pain in my ankle as it stays stuck on the tree root, pulling in one direction while gravity pulls my body in the other.

But then, warm arms circle around my waist before I hit the ground.

Karl and I blink at each other breathlessly in the darkness. The flashlight, which fell from Karl’s hand during his mad dash to catch me, illuminates one side of his face; one soft, brown eye blinks down at me.

“You okay?” he whispers.

I don’t answer. Instead, I throw my arms around his neck and press my lips against his. I feel him smile against my kiss as he pulls me upright, and despite the pain in my ankle, I can’t help but smile too.

When we pull away, however, is when I see it.

“Karl—look!” I gasp, pointing.

Karl follows my gaze. There, at the base of the tree that I tripped over, is a small black patch of mushrooms glistening in the light of the fallen flashlight.

Black truffles.

Karl and I grin and, laughing, stoop down and begin gathering them into our bag. It’s not much, but I know it will be just enough to make the best damn black truffle dish that critic has ever tasted.

When we stand, though, I let out a yelp and quickly lean on Karl for support.

“My ankle,” I whimper, holding my foot above the ground and wincing. “I twisted it.”

“Can you walk?” Karl asks.

I try placing my foot down again, then wince once more and lift it, shaking my head. Tears begin to fill my eyes at this moment, and a sense of pregnancy-hormone-and-stress-induced hysteria begins to take over me.

“We don’t have time,” I whimper. “I have to make this dish. I have to—” But before I can finish, Karl simply crouches down and pats his back.

“Climb on.”