Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 68

Abby

The night weighs heavy on me, each mile that separates Karl and me adding to the burden I didn’t think I’d ever have to bear again. I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning in bed, trying to bury the memories of our argument and the sting of his words. It’s infuriating that he would have the audacity to be mad about my accomplishment.

He should be thrilled for me.

Shouldn’t he?

…

I wake up the next day with dark clouds lingering in my head, mirroring the ones outside my window. I head straight to the kitchen to work it all off. When emotions get messy, the kitchen has always been my sanctuary. But today, even my sanctuary seems to be turning against me.

The day passes by in a blur. Before I know it, the restaurant is empty, the day having been a whirlwind of rushes and demanding customers. Finally, I find myself alone amidst a storm of spices, ingredients, and equipment. At least now, in the empty kitchen, I can think.

But the thing is, I’ve attempted this delicate souffle five times now. It keeps collapsing.

“Damn it!” I snap, tossing my whisk into the sink with an unwarranted amount of aggression. My apron follows, flung across the counter as I grip the edge, my knuckles going white.

This is one of the key dishes I want to practice for the competition. I’ve never had good luck with souffles, and it seems as though that bad luck is still getting in the way.

My heart is pounding like I've run a marathon, and I feel so stupidly vulnerable standing here, defeated by eggs and sugar. Tears of frustration are dangerously close, and I hate myself for it.

I can handle a hectic dinner rush, a dysfunctional kitchen, a competition. But to add Karl’s drama onto it? It’s too much.

“Stop being such a drama queen, Abby,” I chastise myself aloud, rolling my eyes at my own melodrama. That’s when I hear it—a soft clearing of a throat. My body stiffens; that sound has dug its way into my senses more times than I can count.

Looking up, I find Karl standing at the entrance of the kitchen, his posture stiff and his eyes unreadable.

It’s amazing how someone can fill a space even when they’re trying to make themselves smaller. He has this gravity about him, always has, pulling things toward him whether he means to or not. And right now, that gravity feels like a trap.

My pulse quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither of us speaks, and everything unsaid hangs heavy in the air between us.

“I saw the lights were still on. Thought you might be here,” he finally says, taking a hesitant step into the kitchen.

“What are you doing here, Karl?” I ask, my voice laced with more bitterness than I intend. I cross my arms, taking on a defensive stance I wish I didn’t need.

He sighs, his eyes darting to the discarded apron, the mess in the sink, and the ingredients scattered across the counter like evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came to talk about last night.”

I roll my eyes, the back of them practically sore from how many times I’ve done that in the past 24 hours. “Of course you did,” I murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony I can’t help but slather on thick.

He flinches at my tone, and I almost feel bad. Almost. “Abby, listen—”