Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

#Chapter 41: Sparks Fly

Abby

Pushing the restaurant’s door open, I’m immediately enveloped by the scent of fresh bread and

brewing coffee.

The day beckons, promising a hustle that I’m both dreading and anticipating. Each wooden table is

adorned with a fresh bunch of flowers, the gentle hum of the morning preparations playing softly in the

background.

“Morning, Abby!” Jake, my ever-efficient waiter, calls out, balancing a tray of fresh pastries on his palm.

His smile reaches his eyes, but there’s an underlying tension behind his gaze. Word travels fast, and

I’m sure the staff knows about the disaster that was last night.

From behind the bar, Chloe shoots me a sheepish grin. I narrow my eyes at her, knowing that she likely

blabbed to someone, but I can’t stay mad at her.

“Hey, Jake,” I reply, forcing brightness into my voice, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep and the

emotional hangover.

Daisy joins Jake, her apron already smudged with the morning’s work. “Need a coffee?” she asks, a

knowing glint in her eyes.

“Wouldn’t say no to that,” I respond with a weary chuckle.

She swiftly moves to the espresso machine, her hands practiced and sure, and within moments I’m

cradling a warm cup of comfort. The aroma alone gives me the pick-me-up I desperately need.

“Thanks, Daisy. Oh, and get a new apron from the back before customers start coming, alright?”

“Sure thing, boss!”

The warmth of my office is a welcome reprieve from the bustling chaos of the restaurant. I step inside,

immediately relishing the sense of solitude it offers.

My small haven is dimly lit, decorated with tasteful artwork and an impressive array of certificates that

vouch for my culinary skills. Yet, right now, they feel like mere props to a play that’s become all too real. All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

Sliding the door shut, I exhale a long, deep sigh. My feet carry me to the plush leather chair behind my

oak desk. As I sink into it, every muscle in my body seems to let go of the tension it’s been holding

onto. My temples throb, a painful reminder of the tears and restless tossing of the previous night.

Yet, there's a silver lining to my gloomy clouds. My restaurant. My sanctuary.

Sunday mornings are special here. The windows filter in a golden hue, casting warm patches of light

onto the wooden floors. The melodious chatter of customers combines with the clink of cutlery, creating

an ambiance that’s both lively and comforting.

Sunday means brunch, an occasion that fills the restaurant with both families and lone diners seeking

solace in our famous blueberry pancakes or a hearty omelet.

Opening a drawer, I retrieve a stack of paperwork—invoices, supplier orders, and the like. This is the

mundane part of the job that no one ever romanticizes, but there’s a comfort in the routine of it. Each

paper I sign, every number I check, it’s all a testament to the world I’ve built brick by brick, dish by dish.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. My gaze flickers up to find Karl’s familiar face peeking through the

slightly ajar door. A touch of annoyance bubbles up; I was in no mood for interruptions. And after last

night, I don’t want to look him in the eyes, no matter how beautiful and chocolatey they are.

But then I see the takeout coffee cup in his hand. “Can I come in?” he asks.

Sighing, I gesture towards the chair opposite me. “Do you need something, Karl?”

With a slight smile, he places the coffee on my desk. “Thought you might need this.”

I glance at my almost full coffee mug, then back at him, a teasing smirk playing on my lips. “Seems I’m

all set, but thanks.”

Karl’s eyes hold a twinkle, a silent acknowledgment of our shared moment in my apartment last night.

“Just wanted to check on you after last night,” he says. “I’m… worried.”

A tinge of embarrassment floods my cheeks. I don’t want to talk about it. Hell, I don’t even want to think

about it.

Still, there’s something unexpectedly sweet in Karl’s gesture. His concern feels genuine, a stark

contrast to the pitying glances others have been throwing my way sinceI got here.

“I’m good, Karl,” I lie, managing a faint smile. “Just another bump in the road. We all have those, right?”

He nods, the seriousness in his gaze softening. “True. But if you ever need to talk or... well, even just

rant, I’m here.”

That elicits a soft chuckle from me. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Karl hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his words. “Look, about Adam…”

I raise a hand, cutting him off. “Let’s not, okay? I appreciate the concern, but I’d rather focus on today.

We’ve got a brunch crowd to wow.”

His lips curl into a knowing smile. “Alright, boss lady. Let’s get to it.”

…

Ethan enters the kitchen, his face drawn and pale. “Abby, we’ve got a problem. John’s down with a

fever.”

My heart sinks. John being out on what promises to be one of our busiest days of the week is a

nightmare. “Is he okay?”

Ethan shrugs, chewing his lips. “I think so, but he didn’t look good. Said he’s been throwing up all

morning; food poisoning or something. He’ll probably be out for a few days at least.”

Jake, one of my other line cooks, overhears, his face mirroring my concern. “What’re we gonna do?

We’re fully booked tonight.”

I take a deep breath. “We adapt. That’s all we can do.”

My mind races, trying to figure out a solution. That's when I spot Karl in the corner, working away at the

dishwasher. He’s caught up in his task, but he's the only other pair of hands I can think of.

“Karl!”

His head jerks up, eyes scanning the kitchen before settling on me. “Something wrong?”

“I need you in the kitchen,” I state, my tone allowing no room for argument.

Karl looks around, as if hoping to find an escape route. “Cooking?”

“Assisting,” I clarify. “You can chop, right?”

He nods slowly, almost warily. “Sure, but are you sure about this?”

“Desperate times,” I reply with a half-smile.

Karl takes a deep breath, adjusting the bandana he’s started wearing when doing his tasks. He’s really

starting to look the role of a kitchen worker. I won’t admit it, but it's an attractive look on him.

“Alright then,” he says. “Just… guide me.”

As the brunch rush hits, I find myself surprised by Karl's skills. While he’s no seasoned chef, he has a

keen sense of order and follows my directions to a T. I’m both impressed by his abilities and his

agreeableness. Surprisingly, he manages to stay calm throughout the entire lunch rush, without once

getting pissed at me for barking orders.

“We need two Cobb salads and a minestrone!” I call out.

“On it,” Karl responds, deftly slicing through the veggies and assembling them.

Every so often, our eyes meet. The familiar tension is there, but it’s overshadowed by the urgency of

the task at hand. It’s a silent dance, punctuated by the rhythmic chop of knives and the sizzle of the

griddle.

I feel sweat trickling down my brow, the heat of the kitchen melding with the pressure of getting every

order out perfectly. “We’re out of thyme,” Karl notes, his voice edged with mild panic.

“In the pantry, second shelf!” I shoot back, juggling three pans at once.

He dashes off, returning moments later with the required herbs, relief evident in his eyes.

There’s a rhythm we fall into, a synergy that surprises me. The dance of preparing dishes, the

assembly of ingredients, the ebb, and flow of orders—it all becomes a blur.

The hours seem to blend, my focus solely on the dishes and my unexpected sous chef. We’re handling

it, managing the mounting pressure despite being a chef down.

But as the evening crowd starts pouring in, I can feel the weight of it all beginning to press down on us.

The orders are more complex, the dishes more intricate. My communication with Karl becomes even

more critical.

“We need the beef stew and Caesar salad, pronto!” I shout over the growing noise.

Karl nods, his hands moving with impressive speed. “Got the salad,” he responds, handing it over just

as I plate up the stew.

A quick thank you, a shared look of determination, and we’re on to the next order. It’s as if the world

outside the kitchen ceases to exist. It’s just us, the food, and the challenge of the night.

But then, as I slide another dish into the oven, a scent hits me—something not quite right. There’s a

strange scent in the back of the oven, accompanied by… a spark.

I lean closer, trying to make sense of it, when suddenly—

Smoke. My eyes widen in horror. The last thing I need right now is another complication.