Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 151

Abby

The restaurant has long since closed, but the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic still lingers in the air. The sound of sizzling oil on the stove and the faint melody of a song that I don’t like wafting from a speaker in the corner mix together to create a tense symphony that I absolutely don’t need to be hearing right now.

I’m stressed, to say the least. Really stressed.

John stands next to me, his eyes focused as he skillfully dices tomatoes. His posture is rigid, the tension between us as palpable as the texture of the dough I’m kneading for our homemade pasta.

“How’s the dough coming along?” he asks, throwing a quick glance my way.

“It’s fine. Just needs a bit more kneading,” I reply, my palms pushing and folding as I get lost in the repetitive motion.

John grunts in acknowledgment and moves on to chop basil. There’s an air of seriousness around him, an unwavering concentration that should make me feel reassured.

And yet, it doesn’t.

Instead, I’m hyper-aware of the disconnect, the invisible yet unignorable gap between us. It feels like we’re reading from different recipes, never quite aligning.

“Could you pass me the olive oil?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a moment, but there’s none of the warmth or understanding that I used to feel when Karl and I worked side by side in the kitchen.

I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but with Karl, it was natural to work together. Sure, we had our moments, but we worked well together. I like John and he’s a good cook, but we just don’t have that same chemistry in the kitchen. What should feel effortless instead feels like a chore.

“John, it’s not that I don’t trust your judgment,” I finally say, my voice tinged with remorse. “It’s just that I want this to be perfect.”

He lets out an audibly exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,” he growls. “You want everything to be perfect.”

“I know, I know,” I murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep myself composed. I’ve already had countless arguments with John since I asked him to be my sous chef for the competition a week ago and I’m not interested in having another. “Let’s try the paprika.”

John picks up the spice jar again, but the mood has shifted. I expected him to seem satisfied, but he just seems defeated.

He sprinkles the paprika into the sauce and gives it a stir. “There. Let’s see how this tastes.”