Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 394

Abby

As I chop, stir, melt, and saute, the others stand around me, watching intently. The pasta simmers on the stove, the air smelling like warm butter and spices.

It’s enough to make anyone’s mouth water. But my focus isn’t on the rumbling in my belly, nor is it even on the lingering pain in my ankle.

My focus is on the black truffles in front of me.

“Chop them nice and small,” Anton instructs, watching as I work. “That’s perfect, Abby.”

“Thank you, Anton,” I say as I drop the finely chopped mushrooms into the melted butter. “How much time do we have?”

“Don’t worry about the clock,” Karl retorts. “If Mr. Cunningham wants this dish so badly, he’ll just have to wait.”

“Yeah. You can’t rush perfection,” John chimes in.

As I watch the truffles turn glistening and creamy into the melted butter, I can’t help but grin. This is it; the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

It may have taken hours of running all over in search of the mushrooms, and it may have taken a twisted ankle in the process, but I’m determined to make this dish the best that Alfred Cunningham has ever tasted.

Once the truffles are sufficiently cooked into the butter and the other mushrooms are sauteed to perfection with their accompanied spices, I carefully drain the pasta and begin mixing everything together.

The air fills with the sweet scent of all of the components mingling with one another, and finally, a plate with a glistening pile of farro mafaldine in black truffle butter with mushrooms is sitting in front of me.

“That’s it,” I say, straightening and standing back once the dish is plated. “It’s done.”

Daisy draws in a sharp inhale. “Should I bring it out to him now?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No. I’ll do it.”

“But Abby,” Karl says, his eyes widening, “your ankle is hurt. You should rest now.”

It’s too late; I’m already picking up the plate, and despite the pain in my ankle from catching it on that exposed tree root, I’m heading toward the kitchen door. I want to be the one to deliver the dish to Alfred’s table. I want to be the one to see the look in his eyes when he takes the first bite.

And most importantly, I want my face to be the first face he sees when he looks up, realizing that he’s just been proven utterly, completely wrong.

Leah and Chloe open the double kitchen doors for me, and I walk out into the dining area. It’s almost completely empty by now; the restaurant has long since passed closing time, and by this point, we should be popping bottles of sparkling juice and champagne in the back room to celebrate a successful grand opening.

But there is still one last table that has yet to be served.

Alfred Cunningham sits at his table, still writing on his notepad. He doesn’t even look up as I approach.

“Your black truffle mafaldine, sir,” I say, setting the plate down in front of him. “Enjoy.”

Alfred scoffs, still not lifting his head to look at me. “That took you long enough,” he says.

I twinge a bit at his words and look up at the others, who are standing by the bar, watching intently. His words sting, to say the least. After all of the hard work we put in today to make this dish happen, I would have hoped for more than this.

But it doesn’t matter, because this dish is about to blow his mind.

I stand there for a moment, watching, but he still doesn’t lift his head.

“Are you going to try it?” I blurt out.

Finally, Alfred stops his frantic writing and slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine. It’s just as cold and calculating as it was before, with not a single hint of softness over the lengths we went to in order to get this dish out to him.

“When I’m good and ready,” he says as calmly as ever, his eyes scanning me once more. “Is it common practice for you to watch your customers eat?”

I open my mouth to retort, to tell him to just try the damn dish and get it over with, but quickly stop myself before I can make things worse.

“My apologies,” I finally manage. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I won’t. But thank you anyway.” He returns to his notepad.

Stiffly, I turn on my heel and walk away, trying my hardest to hide my limp. It’s only when I’m down the hallway toward the kitchen that I finally let out a shaky breath and hold onto the wall for support.

Karl appears at my side, looping his arm around my waist.

“You okay?” he says softly.

I nod, leaning against the wall and watching the food critic from around the corner. “He still hasn’t touched that dish,” I whisper, shaking my head. “After all that…”

Karl follows my gaze and chuckles softly. “He will. He’s just playing mind games, that’s all.”

As we secretly watch the food critic from around the corner, I wonder what will happen next; he seems like the type to come up with more complaints, despite getting the dish he requested—and a damn good version of it, if I may say so myself.

Finally, Alfred sighs and sets down his pen. I clamp my hand over my mouth, watching as he pulls the plate closer to himself and picks up his fork.

“Come on…” I whisper.

For a few moments, he just inspects the plate; he looks at the meal from every angle, turning the plate this way and that in the light. He prods at the mushrooms with his fork, stabs the pasta, inhales the scent through his nose.

“Merde… Just eat the food!” Anton hisses quietly from behind me.

And yet, for what feels like an eternity, the food critic does not eat. He jots down more notes, takes pictures, mutters to himself.

I feel like I might scream. Beside me, Karl tightens his grip around my waist—although whether it’s to give me support, steady himself, or keep me from running out there, I’m not sure.

But then, finally, it happens. Alfred picks up the fork, stabs a mushroom and a piece of pasta, holds it up in the light for a few moments, and then…

He pops it in his mouth.

Time seems to stretch on eternally. From where I’m standing, I can only see his shoulders and the outline of his jaw. He’s chewing slowly, deliberately—just that one piece, too, and never a second. I hold my breath, watching intently.

And then he sets down his fork. Karl and I look at each other as he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping loudly on the floor in the silent restaurant. Without turning, he takes a wad of cash out of his wallet, tosses it down on the table, and he just…

Walks out.

As soon as the door shuts behind the food critic, my team flies into a frenzy. Shouts fly, curses float through the air, confused faces swim around me.

And all I can do is stare, unblinkingly, at the table with the mostly untouched plate of pasta sitting in the middle of it.