Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

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Abby

The buzzer goes off, and the contestants place down their dishes, stepping

back from their stations. The room is alive with murmurs, excitement from the

crowd as their eyes scan the three dishes on the stage. The judges step down

from their booth, their gazes inscrutable.

My hands tremble, still hovering over the tiramisu’s uneven surface— it’s a

mocking reminder of the chaos just moments before, but I could fix it, at least a

little. Maybe no one would even notice.

My dish is not even close to perfect, far from the image I had in my head, and

every fiber of my being screams to adjust the messy dusting of pistachios just a

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little bit, just so I can make it look a tiny bit more presentable.

But before my fingers can act, I catch Logan’s cold glare, halting me, his

disapproval crystal clear. I quickly pull my hands away, feeling my face turn what

I can only imagine is the deepest shade of red ever.

We all stand back, the stage now eerily quiet. The judges begin to make their

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rounds, and I can hear them before I see them.

“Delicious,” Logan says, slowly chewing a bite of none other than Daniel’s

tiramisu. “Truly delicious. You’ve outdone yourself, Daniel.”

“Thank you, Logan,” Daniel says with a nod. His eyes flicker over to me, and I

feel a twinge of something bubbling inside of me, a fury that makes me want to

lash out. Did Daniel switch my spices? I wouldn’t put it past him.

The judges approach Bryan next. I can’t quite make out what they say this time,

but their expressions tell me that they like his dish. Vanessa rolls her eyes back

as she tastes the mascarpone, a subtle “Oh my god…” escaping her lips.

Shit. She loves it. And now, it’s just me left; me, with my ugly tiramisu. How can I

even compare if they love the others’ dishes so much?

“And the best for last.” Vanessa’s voice is sweet, almost too sweet, as she

addresses me, pulling me out of my pit of dread. “Hello, Abby.”

All I can do is offer a tense smile, nodding politely as Vanessa picks up a spoon

and delicately lifts a bit of the lumpy tiramisu to her mouth.

She chews thoughtfully, her eyes closing for a brief moment. Then, her

expression shifts ever so slightly.

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I feel my blood run cold. It’s not a grimace, but it’s certainly not satisfaction

either.

“Did you use any spices out of the ordinary, Abby?” she asks.

I feel the color drain from my face. “Just… Just nutmeg,” I reply, my voice

quivering.

“Hm.” Vanessa’s hum is low and confused as she beckons Logan over with a tilt

of her head.

Logan shoots me a look as he approaches. I brace myself, recalling the

misplaced spices, the unsettling suspicion of sabotage, the way the mascarpone

clumped up when I added the ‘nutmeg’ to the mixture.

I almost want to curse out loud; I should have checked it just to be safe, but I

was running out of time.

Logan slowly takes a spoonful. His eyes, a stormy gray color, never leave mine

as he tastes the dish.

“That’s cardamom,” he states flatly, putting the spoon down with a clatter, his

face twisting into a scowl. “Not nutmeg.”

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My stomach churns, a sour taste suddenly taking over my mouth. “I—I must

have grabbed the wrong spice,” I stammer, though the explanation sounds

feeble even to my own ears.

Logan’s gaze is unsympathetic, and his words cut deeper than I expected. “It’s

clear you didn’t put as much effort into this dish. I expected more from you,

Abby,” he says coldly.

I feel like I’m shrinking. It’s not possible; it can’t be possible. I know my spices.

“It… It can’t be,” I find myself blurting out before I can stop myself.

With a scowl, Logan holds up a clean spoon for me. “Here. Try for yourself.”

With shaking hands, I tentatively take the spoon and dig it into the tiramisu as

the weight of everyone’s eyes fall on me. It’s all I can do to even get the spoon

to my mouth without collapsing, and when I do, my gut wrenches.

Logan is right. It’s not nutmeg. Not even close.

My heart races, threatening to burst from my chest, but I can’t just stand here

and not defend myself. “My station was sabotaged,” I blurt out. “Someone

switched my ingredients. They were all in the wrong containers.”

The judges’ eyebrows all seem to arch in unison.

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“Sabotaged?” Logan repeats the word as if it tastes sour on his tongue. “It isn’t a

good look for a contestant to be accusing others of tampering with her station.”

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