Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Karl
The sizzle of sauteing farro mafaldine fills the air as Abby and I maneuver
around our station like we’ve done this a million times before. I can sense a
newfound glimmer in Abby’s eyes, a hint of something confident and downright
mesmerizing.
“Ken,” Abby’s voice cuts sharply through the noise, using the pseudonym that I
chose earlier today like it’s second nature to her despite the pressure, “start on
the mushrooms. I’ll handle the mafaldine and get the sauce going.”
“On it,” I reply, grabbing a skillet. I drizzle the olive oil into the pan just as I’ve
watched Anton and John do all along, having taken their motions and saved
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them in a little recess in the back of my mind, like a sponge soaking up
knowledge.
Abby doesn’t miss a beat, her hands working with a practiced rhythm as she

finishes kneading the pasta dough and begins feeding it through the pasta
machine. She shoots me a quick, conspiratorial glance that says we’ve got this
in the bag, so long as we don’t have another sabotage on our hands.
“Make sure those mushrooms are golden, Ken,” she says. “They need to be
perfect.”
I nod, adjusting the flame. “On it, Chef.”
Her laugh crackles across our station. “‘Chef,’” she says. “I like when you call
me that.”
But then, her hands move over the mafaldine, her attention back on the pasta.
“We’’l need the truffles soon,” she says. “Can you grab them?”
“Coming right up,” I say, although the mushrooms demand my focus for a few
moments longer. They’re browning nicely, the nutty aroma mixing with the sweet
scent of the saffron.
Satisfied, I turn down the heat and take a step away from the stove, wiping my
hands on the towel that’s slung over my shoulder. “I’ll grab the truffles now.”

As I make my way to the pantry, I can’t help but feel the prickling sensation of
being on the cusp of victory. Abby is bound to win this, I’m sure of it. The second
round was a bit of a bust, but lady luck is on our side right now.
But then, the door to the pantry swings open, and that’s when I see him—
Daniel’s sous chef, truffles in hand, and a conspiratorial look in his eyes.
“Hey!” I bark out before I can think better of it. The man startles, knocking a
container of herbs off the shelf. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He’s cornered, like a mouse caught by a cat, and there’s no mistaking the flush
of guilt that spreads across his face. His hands clutch a container, the label
reading ‘black truffles,’ but the contents... they look all wrong. Not at all like the
truffles that Abby and I risked our lives to find.
The sous chef scrambles for words, his mouth opening and closing like a fish
gasping for air. “I—uh...”
“Those aren’t the black truffles, you little snake.” My voice is low, almost a growl.
I take a step closer, the intensity of the competition and my desire for Abby to
win fuelling my anger.
He shifts where he’s standing, his eyes flitting desperately toward the door.
“Look, I—”