Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

#Chapter 51: Impressed

Abby

“Alright, paperwork’s done,” Karl declares with an air of finality, piling the last of the filed sheets into a

neat stack.

The office is a maze of papers, scatt ered across the desk and floor, but we’ve managed to conquer the

monster of bureaucracy.

I chuckle, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Who knew running a restaurant came with so

much… paper?”

Karl snorts. “Did no one warn you?”

I roll my eyes dramatically. “Alright, Mr. Know-It-All. Next is ordering. Let’s head to the kitchen and see

what we need.”

He nods, and we make our way to the heart of the restaurant. The stainless steel countertops gleam

under the dim overhead lights, and I breathe in the familiar mix of spices and cooked food. There’s

something soothing about being here, even when the bustle is gone.

I grab a clipboard and start jotting down a list. “We definitely need more garlic, basil, tomatoes…”

Karl starts peeking into various containers and cupboards, joining in on the inventory. “Don’t forget the

mushrooms and parmesan.”

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There’s a moment of comfortable silence as we both get absorbed in our task.

Then, from a distance, the soft strumming of a guitar fills the space. It seems one of the staff has left a

radio on.

“Is that… Ed Sheeran?” Karl asks, looking up with a smile.

I nod, swaying slightly to the rhythm. “Perfect. I haven’t heard this song in a while.”

My head instinctively bobs to the music as I get back to work. But then, I feel a presence beside me. I

look up to see Karl standing beside me, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Dance with me?” he asks.

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Shaking my head, I turn away slightly. “You’re ridiculous. We’ve got work to do.”

“C’mon, Abby. We haven’t danced in so long.” Before I can stop him, he reaches out, grabbing my

hand and twirling me around.

I quickly pull away as a heat creeps up into my cheeks. “No.”

But it’s too late. With a mischievous laugh, Karl grabs me again, pulling me closer this time. I have no

choice but to sway along with him, partially victim to his Alpha aura and partially victim to my own

feelings.

Before I know it, the cold, hard kitchen tiles are becoming our dance floor as the soft lyrics echo around

us.

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As the soft chords of the song fill the kitchen, Karl’s hand finds my waist, pulling me in closer. There’s a

gentle pressure as his fingers dance against my back, guiding our movements. Our feet, somehow in

sync, tap and slide against the cold tiles, creating a rhythm of their own.

His eyes, intense and warm, lock onto mine. Every turn, every twirl is executed with a fluid grace that

sends a rush of memories flooding back.

Despite the time and distance that has come between us, the weight of Karl’s body against mine feels

familiar, comforting.

I won’t admit it, but… I’ve missed this.

I remember those nights we used to spontaneously decide to go out, drawn to the thumping beats of

dance clubs and the infectious energy they promised. Karl had always been such a good dancer, an

unexpected trait for someone of his stature and responsibility.

His steps had a confidence, a surety to them that drew me in. The way he could command a dance

floor was akin to the way he led our pack—with authority and finesse. Dancing with him wasn’t just

about the steps or the music; it was an unspoken language of passion, understanding, and connection.

I used to love the feeling of being twirled under his arm, the heat of our bodies moving together, the

exhilaration of losing ourselves to the beat. The world outside ceased to exist; it was just the two of us

and the rhythm that pulsed through our veins.

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His voice, low and slightly teasing, breaks my reverie, almost as though reading my thoughts.

“Remember how we used to dance the night away? Every weekend, sometimes even on weekdays.”

I blush, nodding. “I remember. You’d spin me around till I was dizzy, and we’d laugh like kids, not caring

about anyone watching.”

Karl chuckles, his grip tightening around my waist for a brief moment. “There was that one time…” he

begins, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “at that club downtown. We danced for hours, didn’t we? Until

our feet ached and our clothes were soaked in sweat.”

The memory surfaces, and I can’t help but giggle. “God, yes. We must’ve looked a mess by the time

we left.”

He smirks, his gaze becoming more intense. “Well, dancing wasn’t the only activity that made us

sweat, was it?”

My eyes widen in mock horror, and I smack his chest, feigning indignation. “Karl! You absolute pig!”

But my reprimand lacks any real heat, and the flush that creeps up my face gives me away. His

laughter rings in my ears, warm and infectious, and I find myself laughing along, even as I try to muster

up a glare.

The laughter gradually dies down, replaced by the soft hum of the music and the steady beat of our

hearts. We’re closer now, our faces inches apart, our breaths mingling. The intensity of his gaze holds

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me captive, and for a split second, everything else fades away.

But reality quickly crashes back in, reminding me of the boundaries, of the lines we’ve drawn. The lines

that I’ve drawn.

With a deep breath, I gently pull away, breaking the magnetic pull between us.

Maybe because I suddenly notice how hungry I feel, or maybe because I want to change the subject, I

gesture toward the fridge. “Are you hungry?” I ask him.

He pauses, a hand on his stomach. “Starving, actually.”

Smiling, I move to the refrigerator. “How about some pasta? You can help with that, too, since you

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seem to be so keen on it tonight.”

Karl raises an eyebrow. “You trust me helping in the kitchen, after the paperwork fiasco?”

“Let’s just say… I’m willing to risk it.” I wink, pulling out a packet of spaghetti and some fresh

ingredients. “Can you handle chopping the garlic and tomatoes?”

He salutes playfully. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

As I boil the water, I sneak glances at Karl. To my surprise, he’s deftly chopping the garlic, each piece

uniform. The tomatoes are next, and he slices them with an ease that’s unexpected.

“You’ve gotten better,” I comment, impressed.

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Karl smirks. “I may have been spying on the head chef during my breaks.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Trying to learn from the best in secret?”

He shrugs, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. “Well, maybe I wanted to impress a certain someone.”

I chuckle, sprinkling salt into the boiling water. “Trying to woo me with your newfound culinary skills?”

“Is it working?” he asks, his tone teasing.

I laugh, adding the pasta to the pot. “Maybe just a bit. But seriously, Karl, you don’t have to go to such

lengths.”

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a seriousness there that wasn’t present a moment ago.

“Abby, it’s never too much. Not for you.”

A warmth spreads through my chest at his words. Here, in the middle of a silent kitchen, with Ed

Sheeran crooning in the background and the scent of pasta wafting through the air, I feel an

overwhelming sense of closeness to Karl. Our past may be complicated, filled with ups and downs, but

this moment feels just right.

We work in tandem, with me guiding him through the steps. Before long, we have a fragrant dish of

garlic tomato spaghetti sprinkled generously with parmesan.

Serving it onto plates, we sit side by side on the kitchen counter, digging in. The pasta is delightful—a

perfect blend of flavors.

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But what’s even more heartwarming is the shared experience of making it together.

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