Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

#Chapter 97: Fool Me Thrice

Abby

The room is dead silent when Karl finishes telling his story. I’m in utter shock, and I think he is, too. In a

way, now that I think of it, it all makes sense. And yet, all these years, neither of us ever saw it coming.

“So your butler…” I pause, swallowing. “Conspired with your secretary to sow discord between us?”

Karl nods quietly. “It appears so,” he murmurs.

In a way, I feel a sense of understanding wash over me. And yet, it doesn’t completely absolve Karl of

his sins. No matter how much Gianna sunk her claws in over the years, he still did what he did by

giving those rare ingredients to Adam. And for that, I still don’t know if I can ever forgive him.

As though reading my mind, Karl’s eyes lock onto mine, and there’s an intensity in them that I haven’t

seen in years. His gaze is heavy, but it’s also completely genuine.

“I know that I never should have gone against you, Abby. I’ve messed up, and I’m sorry,” he says

quietly. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll allow me.”

My chest feels like it’s been hollowed out, replaced with a cavern of disbelief and mistrust. Could this

really be the man who turned my life upside down?

“Sorry?” I find myself hissing. “You really think a simple apology can make this right? Regardless of

what Gianna and Gerald did, you still gave my ex rare ingredients behind my back to make him leave

me, Karl. That can’t be forgiven.”

His jaw tightens. “No,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I know that there’s no way I

can undo the past, but I can try to make the future better. For you, and for your career.”

A part of me, a part I don’t want to acknowledge, wants to believe him. But the other part, the part that

remembers every night I spent alone, every tear shed in solitude, screams at me to keep my guard up.

“You’ve made a mess, Karl,” I say, controlling the tremor in my voice. “A mess that you expect me to

clean up. What about Adam? What about your scheming secretary and butler? You think just because

you’ve fired them, everything’s just going to be okay?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t expect you to clean up my mess. But I’d like the chance to

help. To be part of the solution, not the problem.”

I scrutinize him, looking for the lie, the deceit, but all I see is a man broken by his own decisions, a man

yearning for redemption. I sigh. What’s the harm in letting him help at the restaurant, especially with the

cook-off coming up? As long as I keep my distance, right?

“Fine,” I relent, each word heavy with the gravity of my decision. “You can return to the restaurant. But

only until the cook-off is over, because I need the extra help around here. And I’ll be keeping my

distance.”

His face softens, as if I’ve just thrown him a lifeline. “And the Alpha party?”

I scoff. “You really think I’d still go with you if I even had the chance?”

Karl pauses, and I can see a host of emotions flash through his eyes. Hope, dismay, hurt. Finally, he

seems to settle on acceptance. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” I say, turning away to hide the complicated swirl of emotions threatening to spill over. “And

Karl?”

“Yes?” he asks, a glimmer of hope lighting up his eyes.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Karl nods, his eyes searching mine as if he could find the solution to all his mistakes there. “Thank you,

Abby,” he murmurs. “I won’t let you down. Not this time. Not ever.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. With a last lingering glance, he walks away, leaving me alone with

my thoughts.

…

It’s been two days since I told Karl he could return to the restaurant. I’m still digesting the weight of my

decision to let Karl back into my life yet again—albeit at a distance.

This might just be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, and honestly, I’m mostly concerned about how I’ll

break the news to Chloe when I see her next. No doubt she’ll be furious with me, and there could even

be a physical altercation between her and Karl. I can still barely convince myself that I’m making the

right decision here, so how can I convince her?

Suddenly, the restaurant door chimes, signaling the arrival of a guest. The sound snaps me out of my

train of thought. A glance up from the host stand reveals Mr. Thompson, the manager of the cook-off,

shuffling his way in.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Thompson,” I greet, trying to mask the turmoil of emotions bubbling beneath my calm

exterior. “What brings you here?”

He smiles, his eyes filled with an uncomfortable blend of apology and professionalism. “I hope I’m not

interrupting anything, Abby. May I speak with you?”

I nod, gesturing for him to follow me. Once we’re in my office, I let him take the chair opposite mine. Mr.

Thompson sits down, exhaling as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Unfortunately, there’s been a last-minute change to the cook-off,” he starts, his words measured, but

edged with regret.

I feel my heart sink as all of the worst possibilities flash through my mind. “Mr. Thompson, am I…”

He chuckles. “No, no, you’re still in the competition,” he says, shaking his head. “Sorry; I should have

led with that, shouldn’t I?”

Relief washes over me. “Thank goodness,” I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “What is it, then?”

Mr. Thompson pauses for a moment before speaking. “An additional dish has been added to the list.

And it involves the use of extremely rare, exceedingly expensive truffles. One of the most expensive

truffles in the world, believe it or not.”

As he speaks, he pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to me. It’s a photo of a dish that I’ve never

seen before, with a name at the bottom: farro mafaldine with black truffle butter and mushrooms.

A tight knot forms in my stomach. Black truffles are indeed some of the most expensive, and rarest, in

the world. My restaurant is successful, but it’s not a cash fountain, and these mushrooms have a short

season for harvesting. How am I supposed to practice with ingredients that would not only be too

expensive to purchase at this time of year, but are also exceedingly rare?

He must sense my concern because he hurriedly adds, “And the competition will not be providing these

truffles for practice, I’m afraid. I understand that this is far from ideal, but it’s a situation that’s out of my

hands.”

I force a smile, the implications of what he’s saying spinning my mind into overdrive. “Well, thank you

for letting me know, Mr. Thompson. I appreciate your honesty.”

He nods, rising from his chair. “I wish I had better news, Abby. Truly, I do.”

As he walks out, I sink back into my chair, staring at the vacant space that he’s left behind. My mind

races through options, calculations, and desperate ideas.

How can I prepare a dish I’ve never made before with ingredients I can’t afford?