Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

#Chapter 69: Serving Judgments

Karl

“Watch it, you’re massacring those veggies,” John calls out, glancing over from the stove where he’s

sauteeing some garlic and mushrooms.

I chuckle, adjusting my grip on the knife. I’m supposed to be julienning some peppers, but instead I’ve

lost my train of thought and accidentally begun dicing them instead. “Yeah, well, they had it coming.”

John grins, shaking his head. “Y’know, you’re not as unfunny and stupid as I thought you were.”

“Could say the same about you,” I reply, gathering the sliced vegetables into a bowl.

Who would’ve thought? John and I, mortal enemies turned reluctant allies. A couple of weeks ago, we

could barely stand to be in the same room, but time and circumstances—and angry bosses—have a

way of forcing you to reassess your priorities.

“It’s all about collaboration,” John continues, his tone more philosophical than I thought the brute would

be capable of. “You can’t make a great dish with just one ingredient. Same with a kitchen. Everyone’s

got to pull their weight, contribute their flavor for the bigger picture.”

“You should put that on a plaque or something.”

“And have everyone roll their eyes? Nah, I’ll stick to cooking,” he laughs, adding a splash of white wine

to the pan, filling the air with a rich, aromatic scent.

The door to Abby’s office opens, and for a moment, my world narrows. She steps out, her eyes

scanning the room as if looking for something—or someone. When her gaze falls on me, my heart

leaps in anticipation.

But she averts her eyes, quickening her pace as she walks out of the kitchen.

The atmosphere turns brittle around me. John notices, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, snap out of it! You’re

burning the scallops.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I refocus on the task at hand, on the sound of the scallops sizzling in the pan, but the weight of last

night hangs over me like a dark cloud. We’d argued, voices raised, over her decision to compete in that

culinary contest despite our earlier agreement. I’d felt betrayed; she’d felt cornered. And now, this.

The wolf inside me stirs, restless. “You messed up big time,” he says, a growl wrapped in a whisper.

“I know,” I reply, my mind a swirl of regret and confusion. “Trust me. I know.”

As the day winds down, as the kitchen grows quieter, the realization sinks in deeper. Abby isn’t just the

co-owner of this restaurant. She’s not just another chef. She’s someone I care deeply about, someone

whose dreams and desires should mean as much to me as my own.

And yet, I let my insecurities, my fears, get in the way. I shake my head, frustrated with myself, with the

wedge that’s been driven between us.

“I’m heading out. You good here?” John asks, snapping me back to reality.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow,” I say, forcing a smile.

He nods, casting a somewhat concerned glance my way before exiting the kitchen. Alone now, I take

off my apron and hang it up. My eyes catch Abby’s office door, still closed, a barrier in more ways than

one.

For a moment, I almost knock. But then, I decide that right now, I think I’d rather have a drink.

…

The kitchen is closed, but the bar always stays open for a couple of hours longer. I sit at the counter,

nursing a glass of whiskey that tastes a lot like failure. My eyes catch my reflection in the glass, the

questions there unanswered, piercing. Should I have reacted the way I did to Abby?

I just wish that she didn’t have to make things so complicated. This isn’t what I planned.

“She’s succeeding in life, Karl,” my wolf murmurs, his voice a gravelly echo in my mind. “You should be

proud. Not territorial.”

“Proud?” I almost snort, swirling the whiskey in its glass. “She knew how much that party meant to me

—”

“And you know how much this competition means to her,” my wolf retorts. “If you ever plan on winning

her back, you need to show support. Show that you care. And not just about yourself.”

“I do care for her,” I shoot back defensively, but my wolf has already withdrawn, leaving me alone with

my thoughts and my drink.

As if on cue, Chloe, one of the bartenders, walks over to refill my glass, her eyes cold, judgmental. It’s

as if she’s trying to pour that disdain she feels for me into the glass along with the liquor.

“What’s with the look?” I ask, setting down the glass harder than I mean to. “You’re serving up

judgments now instead of drinks?”

“Considering who’s asking, I think I can manage both,” she snaps, her eyes narrowing.

My eyebrows shoot up, surprise mingling with a touch of indignation. “I’m missing something here,

aren’t I?”

“Missing something? Oh, you mean like how you missed being supportive of Abby when she needed

it?” Her voice drips with contempt.

So she knows.

“Abby tells me everything, Karl. I know what went down last night, how you made her feel. After all

you’ve put her through, you’ve got the nerve to get angry about her success?”

I feel like I’ve been slapped. Chloe has always been direct, no-nonsense, but this feels like a

confrontation I wasn’t prepared for right now. For a moment, I almost consider being vindictive and

asking if Abby also told her about the night that we almost hooked up in the kitchen, but I decide

against it. “Look, I—”

“Save it,” she cuts me off, stepping back from the bar. “If you want to make amends, you better do

something more impressive than drowning your sorrows. Abby’s had enough, and I swear if you keep

bothering her—”

“I realize I made a mistake, okay?” I say, my voice tinged with both frustration and desperation. “I want

to make it up to her.”

Chloe scoffs, shaking her head as she turns away. “You’ll never make up for it, Karl. Not in Abby’s

book, and not in mine. Especially not if you’re going to stomp all over her moment in the spotlight.”

“So what do you suggest?” I ask.

Chloe’s eyes narrow. “I suggest you leave Abby the hell alone. For good.”

Before I can come up with a retort, Chloe storms off. I down the rest of my drink in one go, the burn of

the liquor a poor distraction from the knot of guilt tightening in my stomach.

“Damn it,” I mutter, both to myself and to the situation that seems to be spiraling out of control.

My wolf stirs inside me, agitated. “Don’t listen to her.”

Without responding to my wolf I get up, leaving some bills on the counter before heading out. The night

air is cold, biting, a reflection of my own thoughts.

“Get back in there,” my wolf says, his annoyance showing through his voice. “Chloe doesn’t know what

the hell she’s talking about.”

I shake my head. “Maybe she does. Maybe this is all pointless, and Abby… I’m just getting in the way.”

As I pass through the alley alongside the restaurant, though, something catches my eye. Through the

window, I catch a glimpse of blonde hair—Abby. She’s working in the kitchen again, hunched over

something. I can see her brow furrowed from here, and she’s muttering something. Then, pounding her

fist on the metal table, she throws her whisk in the sink and starts yanking off her apron.

Seeing her like this pains me. I can’t just leave her like this.

“Check on her,” my wolf urges me, and I find that I can't say no. Not this time.