Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to
measure with conviction. Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is
no room for measuring mistakes. An extra tablespoon of sugar could ruin the
whole dish.
Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t forget to breathe, Abby,”
he reminds me, shooting me a wink from across the table.
I let out a breath. “I’m breathing.”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding the bowl of lemon zest toward me. “Everyone
knows that breathing involves keeping your chest perfectly still, your shoulders
stiff, your face red.”
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I can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, fine. You’ve got me.”
We move in sync for a little while longer, zesting and whipping. The timer is
counting down faster than I expected, but I’m not worried.

Until, that is, I reach for the nutmeg—only to pop open the lid and wince at the
overwhelming scent of cumin. “What the—”
Karl looks up, eyes narrowing. “That’s not nutmeg.”
“No, it’s not.” I frantically search for the correct spice, but time is slipping through
my fingers. “Maybe the labels got messed up.” I pick up another jar, pop open
the lid, and inhale. But the jar, labeled ‘cinnamon’ this time, smells like paprika.
“Huh?” I mutter, my panic rising. “Paprika in the cinnamon jar? What’s going on
here?”
Karl is already on the move, reaching into our spice cupboard up to his elbow.
He eventually pulls out another jar labeled ‘nutmeg’ and hands it to me. “Here,
this one is bound to be the right one. The other must have gotten mixed up.”
Nodding, I grab the jar. A quick glance at the clock makes my heart leap into my
chest; I’ve wasted more time hunting for spices than I would have liked, and the
camera is on me, documenting my struggle. Stifling a curse, I dump the nutmeg
into the mixture and get back to work.

We scramble to catch up with the other contestants, but the lost minutes feel
like a lifetime. I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right, that this mix-up
was more than just an accident.
“Karl, these spices,” I hiss, whisking furiously, “do you think—”
“—Sabotage?” he finishes. I nod, and he narrows his eyes. “Don’t worry about it
right now, Abby. Not enough time.”
Karl is right. I’m gritting my teeth, my mind racing with suspicions I can’t afford to
entertain right now. The clock is ticking, and the tiramisu is only halfway done.
“Pass the pistachios,” I say next, my voice strangely steady despite the
pounding in my chest.
Karl hands them over without a word, his focus completely dialed in on the
competition.