Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 182

I can already taste the financial stress paying a professional like him would put me in if I hired him for good, but I’m already thinking of ways to foot the bill. I still need to give Anton time to prove himself, but if he does, I know I want him to stay. And I think everyone else does, too.

Even Karl, maybe.

“Anton, you promised me a cooking lesson. How about now?” I ask, leaning against the counter and trying not to seem too eager.

He looks up, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, Abby, I was hoping you’d remember,” he says in that signature accent of his. There’s a newfound sense of excitement in him, and I can tell that the kitchen is really his home. “Yes, yes, of course!”

Within moments, he’s setting up the ingredients on a clean countertop: farro mafaldine pasta, assorted mushrooms, various cheeses and spices, and of course the coveted black truffles.

“So, watch closely. First, you want to get the water boiling like it’s a hot spring in Iceland,” Anton instructs, setting a large pot on the stove.

“Icelandic hot springs, got it,” I nod, not really sure where Iceland comes into the picture, but willing to go with it.

We move through the steps. Anton’s hands are precise, his instructions detailed yet straightforward, and also oddly couched in every metaphor and analogy possible. I can see John and Karl peeping over from their stations, curious but not wanting to intrude. They pretend to be absorbed in their tasks but I can tell that they’re eavesdropping.

“A touch of salt in the water,” Anton says as he sprinkles it into the pot, “makes it as salty as the sea. Or at least, that’s what my grandma used to say. She drowned in a freshwater lake, which I always found ironic.”

My eyes widen. “Anton…”

“Kidding, kidding,” he says, flicking another pinch of salt into the water with a flourish. Behind me, I can hear John stifle a laugh, and it comes out like he’s being choked.

After we add the pasta, Anton guides me through the delicate process of making the sauce. He sautees the mushrooms carefully. “Treat them like you would a first date, gentle yet with intent,” he says, and now I’m the one who can’t contain my laugh.

“How many first dates have you had with mushrooms?”

“Ah, a gentleman never tells.”

Finally, it’s time to add the part that I’ve most been dreading: the black truffle butter. After carefully simmering almost microscopic pieces of black truffles with lard, Anton slices a small piece, letting it melt into the pan, and the aroma is heavenly.