Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

#Chapter 63: Comatose

I’m standing by the stainless steel counter, doing my best to look like I’m occupied with inventory and

prepping the dough for our fresh bread in the morning.

But my real focus is on the fiery dance unfolding in front of me—Karl and John, circling each other in

the kitchen like two alpha wolves in a turf war. The tension is so thick you could spread it on toast.

“Karl! Chop those onions faster!” John barks, to which Karl surprisingly complies—and with a smile on

his face, no less. I’m pleased. It’s not perfect, but it’s their first night. I just hope that it gets better over

time.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering the moment. I glance down; it’s a call from Calvin,

the representative for the cook-off. I’m suddenly flooded with a mixture of excitement and nerves. This

could be a game-changer for my career, for my restaurant, for me.

With a lingering glance at Karl, whose hands are meticulously arranging greens on a plate, I slip away.

I dart through the swinging door of the kitchen, my heels clicking urgently against the tile floor, and

make a beeline for my office.

Once inside, I close the door, leaning against it momentarily to collect myself. Taking a deep, steadying

breath, I swipe the screen and answer.

“Mr. Thompson, hi! Sorry I couldn’t take your call immediately. Things are a little hectic here.”

“No worries, Abby.” Calvin’s voice is as smooth as I remember, professional with a tinge of friendliness.

“I know you’re a busy woman. That’s part of why we wanted you for the cook-off, actually.”

My heart swells with a combination of pride and anticipation. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson. That means a

lot.”

“Now, onto why I called you: I’ve just received the recipe list for the cook-off,” he continues. “I’ll be

sending it to you via email shortly. You’re welcome to spend the coming weeks practicing, but keep in

mind that only three recipes will be chosen from the list, and you won’t know which ones will be chosen

until the time of the competition. The format will involve each contestant cooking a three-course meal:

an appetizer, an entree, and a dessert.”

I jot down some quick notes as he speaks. This is more structured than I thought, but also more

exciting. “Three courses,” I repeat. “Got it.”

“Also,” Calvin continues, “you will be allowed to bring one assistant—or sous chef, rather—of your

choosing to help you during the competition. Only one. Choose wisely.”

“Of course,” I say, already wondering who I would bring. John, most likely. Or maybe Ethan. He doesn’t

have much experience behind the line, but he’s dependable.

Calvin continues. “Each round will eliminate the lowest-scoring contestant until we’re down to the final

two. It will be a spectacle, Abby, and a real challenge. And… It will be televised.”

The adrenaline courses through me at his words. Challenge is exactly what I need right now,

something to throw myself into, something that isn’t fraught with emotional landmines like my current

situation with Karl.

But television? I’ve only been on the local news once for a brief five-minute interview.

“I can sense your trepidation,” Calvin says, and I can hear his warm smile through the phone. “But don’t

worry. Our producers are the best. Everything will be taken care of.”

“Th-Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” I manage, swallowing.

“We’re excited to have you, Abby,” Calvin assures me. “Check your email soon.”

“I will… Thanks again,” I reply, the smile on my face probably wide enough to split it in two.

As I hang up, I clutch my phone to my chest, my eyes fluttering closed for a brief, sacred moment. For

the first time in a while, tears prick the corners of my eyes for a reason other than heartbreak or

frustration. They’re tears of joy, of potential, of a future that’s finally looking bright.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is real. I’ve worked so hard, faced so much, and

now a new opportunity is unfurling in front of me like a path of golden breadcrumbs. And I want to

follow it, wherever it may lead.

With a final deep breath to center myself, I tuck my phone back into my pocket. It’s time to return to the

battlefield that is my kitchen, to the tensions and trials that still await me there.

…

The kitchen is bustling with activity, the aroma of sautéed garlic and simmering sauces filling the air. I

step in, glancing around at my team, my eyes falling on John. Beside him, where Karl should be, is

empty.

John is red-faced, and the intensity of his glare could probably singe the chopped vegetables beside

him. His mood is as palpable as the heat emanating from the stovetops. I steel myself for what’s

coming.

“What happened? Where’s Karl?” I venture cautiously, already suspecting the answer.

John’s eyes lock onto mine. “Your newest prodigy, the illustrious Karl…” He spits the name out like it

makes him sick. “...Just stormed out. On his first night on the line. He threw down his apron and

everything. What a diva.”

I sigh, a heavy, world-weary exhalation. “Okay, thanks for letting me know. I’ll handle it,” I say, already

pivoting on my heels. I don’t want to be caught in the crossfire between these two. Not now.

Exiting through the back door, the cold air in the alleyway hits me like a wave, washing away the heat

and grime of the kitchen. There’s Karl, leaning against the brick wall. He’s holding a cigarette up to his

lips, and as I approach, I hear him mutter something, a soft curse, beneath his breath.

He seems to be completely absorbed in his own turbulent world, unaware that I’m here.

“Karl.” I break the silence. “What happened back there?”

He’s startled, dropping ash from his cigarette. When he turns to face me, his eyes are smoldering.

“What happened? What happened is, I’m doing my best, Abby. You wanted me to fit in, I tried. You

wanted me to get along with Chloe, I said I would put in an effort. Now this, apprenticing under John?” Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

His voice is tinged with incredulity and rises with every word.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like, listening to that man bark orders at me all evening?” he continues,

the vein on his forehead popping a little. “I’m doing this for you, but it feels like you’re playing some kind

of game with me, like you’re raising the stakes every time I meet your ridiculous challenges.”

His words jab at me, striking nerves I’ve been trying to soothe since our world crumbled. It’s too much. I

can’t hold back anymore.

“Raising the stakes? You think I’m raising the stakes?” My voice quivers with emotion, but I let it. “You

walked out on our marriage, Karl. You divorced me over accusations that had no basis in reality, didn’t

even tell me what they were or give me a chance to explain myself until a few weeks ago. You broke

my heart. And you accuse me of making this difficult?”

He opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to defend himself or to cut me off, but I’m not done.

The dam has broken and years of pent-up pain are flooding out.

“Since the day you left me, my wolf has been in a coma, Karl.” I practically spit the words at him, each

syllable heavy with the gravity of my confession.

There’s a beat of silence. His eyes, those stormy eyes I used to lose myself in, widen in what could

only be described as astonishment, maybe mixed with a touch of remorse. It’s as though he’s seeing

me clearly for the first time in a long while, taking in the depth of the fissures that have cracked the

foundation of who we used to be to each other.

For a moment, I see a flicker of something in his eyes—shock, realization, maybe even guilt.

“Abby…” He takes a step closer, his eyes wider than they were before. “Your wolf is gone?”