Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Abby
I’m sitting by myself in the breakroom, my fingers wrapped around a cardboard
cup of coffee from the vending machine. The coffee has already gone cold, but
it’s not like I was drinking it anyway. The taste was too bitter for what I need right
now.
Karl stepped out just a few minutes ago. He said he had to make a call, and I’m
too numb to question it. Right now, I welcome the silence of the breakroom. I
needed it after that little display on the stage.
I can still feel the heat from the stage lights, the biting sting of Logan’s harsh
words. “You should know your ingredients.” His voice replays in my head like a
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broken record, his voice pulsing alongside the pounding headache I have right
now.
Suddenly, the door swings open, and Bryan strides in, his phone pressed to his

ear. He shoots me a distracted nod before he murmurs an apology and exits the
room, no doubt seeking privacy for his call. My solitude is short-lived.
Then, much to my chagrin, Daniel enters the breakroom just as Bryan slips out.
He stops short when he sees me, his eyes lip up with a smirk that makes my
blood boil.
“Tough break out there, Abby,” he says, pouring himself a coffee. No sugar, no
cream. Black, just as I expected. Just like his heart.
“Did you have anything to do with it?” The accusation leaps from my lips before I
can weigh the consequences.
He turns, leaning back against the counter, his eyes narrowing into slits.
“Tamper with your station? Please. I don’t play games, Abby. I don’t have to.”
“But the spices were switched. You were the only one who—” I start, but my
voice trails off. I shouldn’t finish. It’s too much of a leap, and I don’t have any
evidence.
“Even if I did, which I didn’t, you should have known,” he hisses. “A chef should

know her ingredients by smell, by taste.” Daniel’s sneer is sharp and pointed
directly at me. There’s a sort of gleeful malice behind his eyes, and I can tell
he’s lying through his teeth.
My hands clench into fists around the cardboard cup, crushing it a little with my
grip. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I blurt out.
His chuckle is low, wry, voice of any real humor. “What I enjoy, Abby, is watching
someone who’s out of her depth flail around and make a fool out of herself on
live television.”
The coffee is forgotten as I stand, my chair scraping back with a noise that feels
all too loud in the quiet room. “So, what, this is fun for you? Sabotaging me?”
Daniel shrugs casually, but I know what he’s thinking. “You sabotage yourself,
Abby. You don’t need my help to do that,” he says, his lips turning up at the
corners.