Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 269

Abby

I’m still standing, frozen, just inside the threshold of the kitchen. The air is silent as John and Anton suddenly halt their cooking, their eyes meeting each other for a moment before they slide over to me.

“Abby?” John’s voice is somewhat incredulous, seeing as how I haven’t set foot in here for the past three weeks. “Did you need something?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves as I face John and Anton, their expressions a mix of surprise and curiosity. “I’m just... checking in,” I manage to say, but even to my own ears, the words sound like a lie.

Anton leans back against the prep station and wipes his hands on the towel that’s slung over his shoulder. “Checking in?” He arches an eyebrow as a smirk plays on his lips. “Is that really it?”

John nods in agreement with Anton and folds his arms over his chest. “Yeah, Abby, tell us the truth.”

There’s a pause, a moment where I wonder if I should make up an excuse and leave, but I know that Ethan and Daisy are blocking the other side of the door. And besides, there’s no point in lying. My staff knows me too well.

“Alright, fine. I want to come in and cook,” I confess, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a rush. “But I’ve been scared. Scared that I can’t do it anymore.”

The kitchen seems to freeze in time. John and Anton exchange a knowing glance with one another before looking at me, and it’s then that I realize that they’ve likely being talking about this for a while now.

Anton’s smirk softens ever so slightly. “Scared, huh?” He chuckles, but there’s no malice in it. “There is no such thing as fear in the kitchen.”

John’s approach is a little more gentle. “Look, Abby, we’ve all been there. But you can’t let one loss hold you back from what you’re really good at.”

Before I can respond, they're on either side of me, their hands reassuring on my shoulders. Anton is suddenly grabbing a chef’s coat off of the hook.

“Here,” he says, holding it open for me. “Put this on. No chef cooks in their street clothes.”

I hesitantly slip my arms into the sleeves, the fabric hanging a bit loose, but instantly I feel a shift. It’s like a newfound purpose is watching over me. John is grinning now, the lines around his eyes crinkling along with it.

“And you’ll be needing this,” he says, thrusting a whisk into my hand. It’s an old one, the wires bent from use, but it feels right.

“If you want to cook, then cook,” Anton says, pushing me toward the line.

…

I’m not sure exactly how long I’ve been standing at the prep station, working on the same pile of vegetables. My hand is shaky as I julienne the peppers, the slices either too thick or too thin for my liking. But I’m here, and that counts for something, right?

Suddenly, John’s voice slices through the frenetic air of the bustling kitchen.

“Abby, we really need another hand here. Can you jump on the line?”

I hesitate for just a split second—old fears gnawing at me—but when I turn around and see Anton and John struggling to keep up with a rapidly worsening dinner rush, that’s when adrenaline kicks in.

“On it.”

The line turns into a blur. The sounds all morph into one cacophony of clatters and sizzling, with my own voice rising above the rest.

“Just get that beef out,” I say, and he grins, nodding.

The night surges on in a blur of relentless orders, hot dishes, and minor catastrophes. My wrist is burned from a splatter of hot oil, my chef’s coat is stained with tomato sauce, but my heart is finally in it, and that’s all that matters.

Eventually, the rush comes to its end. The orders wane, leaving, John, Anton, and I out of breath and leaning on the line, finally able to wipe the sweat from our brows.

I let out a long breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s over. I made it through the dinner rush, and… I didn’t even think twice.

The crew begins to clean up the line and begin prep for tomorrow so we can get home early. For the first time in three weeks, I’m exhausted; really, truly exhausted, but in a good way.

“So?” John’s voice is softer as we chop vegetables in rhythm, the sound of jazz music floating through the bluetooth speaker to calm our nerves. “First day back. Feel good?”

“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. The fear, the hesitation—it’s gone, burned away in the heat of the dinner rush. “It feels… great.”

“Good to have you back, Chef,” Anton says, nodding with approval.

Chef. I haven’t heard that title in three weeks, three weeks that felt like an eternity. And in this moment, as the final dish makes its way out to the dining area, that word feels… right.

I am a chef. No matter what Daniel said, no matter what happened during that cook-off, I am a chef. I earned this title, fair and square, with blood, sweat, and tears.

And I’ll be damned if I let another man try to take it from me.