Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

“On it,” he responds, jogging toward the pantry. He returns a few moments later,
and we swap places.
“Make sure to turn the duck and sear it evenly,” I call out as I begin to mix the
ingredients together to make the dough. “Use the red wine for moisture. Yeah,
just like that, perfect...”
...
When the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the round, I step back and take a
look at my dish.
It’s beautiful—each element perfectly executed, just like I rehearsed a million
times in my head. The plate practically glows under the stage lights, and I can’t
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help but feel a surge of pride course through my body.
The judges make their way around, forks poised, eyes narrowed in
concentration. I watch as they reach Daniel’s station. He stands tall, his chin

held high, as they taste her creation. My heart pounds in my chest, each thud
echoing my mounting anxiety.
Finally, they come to my station.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, pushing my plate forward. “I hope you
enjoy my rendition of duck pâté en croûte. I incorporated a hint of black pepper
into the pastry, which I believe adds a savory kick in a subtle way.”
The first judge takes a bite and nods approvingly, her eyes meeting mine in a
silent communication of respect. The second judge, too, gives a nod.
But then, there’s Logan—the Logan—chef extraordinaire and owner of some of
the most renowned restaurants in the world. His gaze is piercing, almost
disconcerting, as he takes a bite of my dish.
The seconds stretch out like hours as he chews slowly, deliberately, his face
unreadable. And then, a small grimace. My blood runs cold.
“The texture’s off,” he says, setting down his fork. “And you could have used
more seasoning. The black pepper isn’t hiding your inadequate flavor.”

I feel like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. The judges move on, but I feel like I’m
stuck in a haze, my throat collapsing in on itself. This is only the first round, and
yet I already feel like I’ve been tied to the whipping post, and Logan is doling out
punishments over black pepper and texture.
Karl, sensing my disappointment, gently squeezes my arm. “Hey, it’s just one
judge. His opinion doesn’t define everything,” he whispers as we return to our
station.
“I know, Karl,” I whisper. “But what if I make it to the next round and he hates my
food again? It’ll only get harder from here.”
Karl’s eyes lock onto mine. “Abby, you’re a brilliant chef. One comment doesn’t
erase all the work you’ve put into this. Don’t let it mess with your head.”
Despite his comforting words, the worry clings to me, sticky and persistent.
What if Logan’s opinion sways the others? What if his critique is just
foreshadowing the rest of the competition?