Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0241

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The sizzle of sauteing farro mafaldine fills the air as Abby and I maneuver around our station like we’ve

done this a million times before. I can sense a newfound glimmer in Abby’s eyes, a hint of something

confident and downright mesmerizing.

“Ken,” Abby’s voice cuts sharply through the noise, using the pseudonym that I chose earlier today like

it’s second nature to her despite the pressure, “start on the mushrooms. I’ll handle the mafaldine and

get the sauce going.”

“On it,” I reply, grabbing a skillet. I drizzle the olive oil into the pan just as I’ve watched Anton and John

do all along, having taken their motions and saved them in a little recess in the back of my mind, like a

sponge soaking up knowledge.

Abby doesn’t miss a beat, her hands working with a practiced rhythm as she finishes kneading the

pasta dough and begins feeding it through the pasta machine. She shoots me a quick, conspiratorial

glance that says we’ve got this in the bag, so long as we don’t have another sabotage on our hands.

“Make sure those mushrooms are golden, Ken,” she says. “They need to be perfect.”

I nod, adjusting the flame. “On it, Chef.”

Her laugh crackles across our station. “‘Chef,’” she says. “I like when you call me that.”

But then, her hands move over the mafaldine, her attention back on the pasta. “We’’l need the truffles

soon,” she says. “Can you grab them?”

“Coming right up,” I say, although the mushrooms demand my focus for a few moments longer. They’re

browning nicely, the nutty aroma mixing with the sweet scent of the saffron.

Satisfied, I turn down the heat and take a step away from the stove, wiping my hands on the towel

that’s slung over my shoulder. “I’ll grab the truffles now."

As I make my way to the pantry, I can't help but feel the prickling sensation of being on the cusp of

victory. Abby is bound to win this, I’m sure of it. The second round was a bit of a bust, but lady luck is

on our side right now.

But then, the door to the pantry swings open, and that’s when I see him—Daniel’s sous chef, truffles in

hand, and a conspiratorial look in his eyes.

“Hey!” I bark out before I can think better of it. The man startles, knocking a container of herbs off the

shelf. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He’s cornered, like a mouse caught by a cat, and there’s no mistaking the flush of guilt that spreads

across his face. His hands clutch a container, the label reading ‘black truffles,’ but the contents... they

look all wrong. Not at all like the truffles that Abby and I risked our lives to find.

The sous chef scrambles for words, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “I—uh…”

“Those aren’t the black truffles, you little snake.” My voice is low, almost a growl. I take a step closer,

the intensity of the competition and my desire for Abby to win fuelling my anger.

He shifts where he’s standing, his eyes flitting desperately toward the door. “Look, I—”

His eyes dart from side to side. “No, look, I—”

“I swear, it’s not how it looks,” he stammers, his eyes darting down to the container as if it might offer

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“I don’t believe you,” I say, outstretching my hand. “Give me the real truffles. Now.”

He hesitates, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. “I can’t—”