Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Chatper 242

His gaze finally breaks from mine, looking at anything but my face. “I was just

checking something,” he says, his voice so low it’s a whisper.

“Oh, you were ‘checking something?’” I echo, my tone chalk full of disbelief. “By

switching labels and possibly ruining our dish? Hm?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, the perfect picture of guilt.

“I was just…” He stammers, his voice trailing off.

I can’t take it anymore. I’m getting those truffles—the real black truffles, the ones

that are balled up in his filthy little hand, about to be slipped into his pocket—for

Abby, one way or another.

Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇt

Enter title…

Without entirely thinking of a plan, I find myself lurching forward, fueled by anger

and the adrenaline of the competition, and snatch the truffles out of his hand.

“You’re cheating!” I call out, loud enough for the others to hear. “Did Daniel put

you up to this?”

But then, as the truffles come into my possession, the sous chef’s face morphs

into something unreadable, and suddenly, he’s cradling his wrist, howling in



pain.

“You wrenched my wrist! You hurt me!” he cries out.

I stand there, truffles in hand, shocked. “I did no such thing! I didn’t even touch

you!”

His cries echo off the pantry walls, drawing eyes toward us like moths to a

flame. The room falls deathly silent, save for his accusations. The camera

swivels in our direction, eager to capture this drama for live television.

“Look, everyone, I didn’t touch him! He’s lying!” I protest, holding out the truffles

as evidence of his deceit. “He was swapping the ingredients. He took the black

truffles and—”

But it’s too late; the narrative has shifted, and I can see it in the way their eyes

change, how the whispers are starting to spread. The sous chef howls even

Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏm

louder, gripping his wrist as his face turns beet red.

“Ow! Owww!” he wails, pacing back and forth. “God, I think he sprained my

wrist! Ow!”

A security guard, a hulking figure of authority, steps forward. “Sir, you need to



come with me,” he says, jerking his head toward me.

Abby’s face, once flushed with the heat of cooking, blanches as she witnesses

the scene. “Karl, what’s going on?” Her voice, filled with disbelief, reaches me

even as I’m ushered away from the scene by the security guard.

“I never touched him, Abby! He’s faking it!” The desperation in my voice does

nothing to change the unfolding events.

