Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

#Chapter 53: A Mess To Clean

Abby

The sun’s barely peeking over the horizon as I pull open the door to the restaurant.

I can already feel the hustle of a new day, the potential for a fresh start. Walking in, I expect the familiar

comfort of an empty space, but I’m met instead with Ethan’s brooding form. His jaw is set tight, his This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

brow furrowed.

He doesn’t look up as I approach.

“Morning,” I greet cautiously, sensing the tension in the air.

He sighs heavily. “Abby... What the hell happened here last night?”

Confused, I follow his gaze. The kitchen. Oh no. My heart skips a beat as memories of last night flood

back. The cooking. The laughter. The... moment with Karl.

“What do you mean?” I manage to ask, feigning ignorance.

Ethan’s eyes fix on me, and I can see his irritation. “I’ll show you.” Without waiting for a reply, he leads

me into the disaster zone that is the kitchen.

Every counter is smeared with remnants of our late-night feast. Pots and pans are scattered

everywhere, some still containing leftover food. The sight makes my stomach churn with guilt. How

could I have been so careless?

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. “I... I was working late last night. Got hungry and...” I trail off, trying to

find a good excuse, but words fail me.

Ethan just raises an eyebrow, his expression demanding more.

“And... I forgot to clean up,” I finish lamely, avoiding his gaze.

A beat of silence. Then, “Forgot?” His tone is sharp, filled with disbelief.

My mind races. If he even catches a hint of what transpired with Karl, rumors would spread like wildfire,

jeopardizing not only my reputation but potentially the restaurant’s as well.

“I was exhausted,” I murmur.

His eyes scan the kitchen, lingering on a particular spot on the counter, and my heart races. That’s

where Karl and I... No. I shake my head mentally. Now’s not the time.

Taking a deep breath, I roll up my sleeves. “I’ll clean this up, Ethan. I’m sorry.”

He sighs, his anger simmering down to annoyance. “Just... be more careful, Abby. This isn’t like you.”

You have no idea, I think grimly. But all I say is, “I promise.”

As he walks away, I’m left with the mess—both the literal one in the kitchen and the tangled one in my

heart. As I scrub the counters, my mind can’t help but drift back to last night.

To Karl.

Every spot I clean, every dish I wash, feels like an echo of his presence. The way he smiled, the sound

of his laughter, the touch of his lips...

No. I need to stop this. Last night was a mistake. An indiscretion borne out of nostalgia and exhaustion.

It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

The more I scrub, the more I try to erase not just the stains of food but the remnants of those feelings.

The confusion. The longing. The regret.

Hours seem to pass as I’m lost in my thoughts, cleaning up my mess in more ways than one. By the

time I’m done, the kitchen is spotless—gleaming counters and organized tools. I wish it was as easy to

sort out my emotions.

I lean against the counter, the same one where Karl and I shared that moment, and close my eyes. The

memory is still fresh, the feelings raw. But this is neither the time nor the place to deal with it.

With a deep sigh, I push away from the counter, reminding myself of my responsibilities, the reputation

of the restaurant, and the promises I made to myself.

Today is a new day, and I need to focus on the present, not get lost in the memories of last night.

…

The sunlight slants through the half-drawn blinds, casting soft golden beams onto my desk as I skim

through the restaurant's monthly earnings. There’s a particular rhythm to the mornings here, where the

distant hum of activity outside my office gently soothes my usually anxious mind.

Then there’s a knock, crisp and assertive.

“Come in,” I call out, expecting to see Ethan or even Karl.

But the door swings open to reveal a tall, commanding figure that I don’t recognize.

Dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, with an air of unquestionable authority, the stranger’s steel blue eyes

meet mine. He extends a hand, introducing himself. “You’re Abby, correct?” he asks. “The owner of this

restaurant?”

I nod, furrowing my brow. I wasn’t expecting any health inspectors today. “Yes,” I reply hesitantly.

The man smiles. “I’m Calvin Thompson.”

Rising to greet him, I shake his offered hand, slightly taken aback by the unexpected visit. “Mr.

Thompson. I don’t believe we had an appointment. How can I help you?”

Without preamble, he begins, “I represent the Alpha Gathering Committee. I understand this might

come as a surprise, but your restaurant has garnered quite the reputation.”

I know all about the Alpha gathering. It’s where deals are struck and alliances formed, all over

sumptuous meals and fine wine.

And it’s where I promised to go on that date with Karl, since I lost our bet.

My mind races, trying to grasp why a representative from the committee would be standing in my

modest office.

Calvin continues, his tone steady, “Among countless establishments in this city, yours stands out. As

such, you are among the four finalists we’re considering to cater for our next event.”

I blink, trying to process the weight of his words. “Finalist? You've been assessing us?”

He nods, looking around the office, perhaps trying to read the story of my journey from the certificates

and mementos adorning the walls. “We’ve had undercover food critics visit over the past few months.

Your dishes, your service, the ambiance—they’ve all consistently ranked high.”

Flashes of recent diners filter through my mind. The elegantly dressed woman who’d praised our risotto

last week, the quiet gentleman who’d left a generous tip for the seafood platter, could they have been...

“We understand this might be overwhelming,” Calvin interrupts my train of thought. “But this is a golden

opportunity, Ms. Foster. An association with the Alpha gathering can propel an establishment to new

heights."

The magnitude of what he’s suggesting dawns on me. This is not just a business proposition; this is a

potential game-changer. I’ve poured my heart and soul into this place, endured sleepless nights, faced

countless challenges, and now, this opportunity is laid out in front of me.

“And… how would this process work, exactly?” I manage to ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

“We arrange a tasting session,” Calvin says. “You present to us a range of dishes that encapsulate

what your restaurant offers. Our panel will then decide. Given the scale and prestige of the event, I

must stress the importance of this endeavor.”

Taking a deep breath, I try to wrap my head around the whirlwind of information. From the everyday

hustle of managing a restaurant to being shortlisted for one of the city’s most sought-after events, the

shift is vertiginous.

Calvin, perhaps noticing my disorientation, offers a reassuring smile. “Take your time to process this,

Ms. Foster. We aren’t expecting an immediate decision. But do understand the gravity and potential of

this opportunity.”

My gaze drifts to a picture on my desk—a photo from our opening night.

The joy, the anticipation in our faces, it all seems so far away now. I can’t even begin to wrap my head

around the fact that my restaurant, out of all of the restaurants in the city, is one of the four finalists.

And as I look up, meeting Calvin’s expectant gaze, there’s only one thing that escapes my lips.

“This… Isn’t a prank, right?”