Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 235

I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to measure with conviction. Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is no room for measuring mistakes. An extra tablespoon of sugar could ruin the whole dish.

Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t forget to breathe, Abby,” he reminds me, shooting me a wink from across the table.

I let out a breath. “I’m breathing.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding the bowl of lemon zest toward me. “Everyone knows that breathing involves keeping your chest perfectly still, your shoulders stiff, your face red.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, fine. You’ve got me.”

We move in sync for a little while longer, zesting and whipping. The timer is counting down faster than I expected, but I’m not worried.

Until, that is, I reach for the nutmeg—only to pop open the lid and wince at the overwhelming scent of cumin. “What the—”

Karl looks up, eyes narrowing. “That’s not nutmeg.”

“No, it’s not.” I frantically search for the correct spice, but time is slipping through my fingers. “Maybe the labels got messed up.” I pick up another jar, pop open the lid, and inhale. But the jar, labeled ‘cinnamon’ this time, smells like paprika.

“Huh?” I mutter, my panic rising. “Paprika in the cinnamon jar? What’s going on here?”

Karl is already on the move, reaching into our spice cupboard up to his elbow. He eventually pulls out another jar labeled ‘nutmeg’ and hands it to me. “Here, this one is bound to be the right one. The other must have gotten mixed up.”

Nodding, I grab the jar. A quick glance at the clock makes my heart leap into my chest; I’ve wasted more time hunting for spices than I would have liked, and the camera is on me, documenting my struggle. Stifling a curse, I dump the nutmeg into the mixture and get back to work.

“You’ll be fine,” Karl assures me as he glances at the clock. But I’m not immune to the trepidation in his voice; we’ve only got two minutes left.

As we assemble the final layer, my hands shake, dusting the pistachios on top with less grace than I would like. The tiramisu doesn’t look like the masterpiece I envisioned; it’s messier, its layers are uneven, and the mascarpone is clumpy.

But why? I knew this recipe like the back of my hand. The nutmeg should have mixed in just fine, and yet…

“Time’s up,” I breathe out, my eyes on the clock hanging over our heads.

“Three… Two… One…” The announcer counts down, and as he hits the last number, we step back.

And then, the buzzer goes off, indicating the end of the round.