Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0166

“So, what now?” he asks softly. “About the competition, I mean.”

I sigh, my mind racing back to the hours John and I spent in the kitchen, the relentless pursuit of a

perfection that now seems so utterly… pointless.

“I think I just have to accept that I can’t practice this recipe the right way,” I finally murmur, taking a step

back as I try to ignore the racing of my heart. “I guess not everything can be perfect.” This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

…

I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, finally managing to unlock it and step inside for the first

time since this morning.

The weight of the day presses down on me like a ton of bricks. ‘Exhausted’ doesn’t even begin to cover

it. And the frustration over the truffles—or the lack thereof—is the cherry on top.

“God, what a day,” I mumble to myself, tossing my bag onto the coffee table as I collapse onto my

couch. I kick off my heels, letting them thud unceremoniously onto the floor. For a moment, I entertain

the thought of just falling asleep right here, still in my work clothes.

As if agreeing with me, my eyelids grow heavy and I start to drift, the stress of the day fading away into

the welcoming arms of sleep.

But just as I’m about to finally nod off into the sweet embrace of sleep, a sharp ding pierces the air. I jolt

awake, my eyes snapping open.

My phone’s screen is lit up on the coffee table, a notification glowing. Rubbing my temples, I sit up and

reach for it, my eyes narrowing as I see it’s an email. At this hour?

The sender and subject catch my attention immediately.

It’s from the cook-off judges. My heartbeat quickens as I open the email, thinking they must have

reached out to discuss some detail about the competition. But as I skim the content, my eyes widen in

disbelief.

“Hey, Emi,” the first email in the thread reads. “I’m thinking that we should do the truffle dish after all,

don’t you think?”

“100% agree,” the judge named Emi replies. “The mafaldine will pair well with the dessert we’ve

chosen, and I think it’ll be a good test of the contestant’s abilities to work with rare ingredients.”

Finally, there is one more email in the thread… The one that made my phone light up a moment ago,

and which definitely should not have had me included. It’s from Mr. Thompson.

“Very well. The mafaldine truffle dish will be the entree. Let me know if any of you have any changes to

make as we continue!”

My hand instinctively claps over my mouth. They’re going to pick the truffle dish after all? The one dish

I can’t practice because of those elusive, expensive truffles?

My mind starts racing, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. I quickly check the recipients of the

email. A bunch of internal addresses and... me. My name is there, clearly added by mistake.

Someone’s going to have a fun time explaining this slip-up, but right now, that’s the least of my

concerns.

My eyes dart back to the email text. I read it again, making sure I didn’t misunderstand. No, it’s clear as

day: they’re planning on selecting the truffle dish for the competition.

So, what does this mean for me? It means that I can’t just wing it. It means that somehow, some way, I

have to get my hands on those truffles and perfect that dish. The margin for error just got a whole lot

smaller, and the stakes are now higher than ever.

I set my phone down, still in a bit of a daze. I wasn’t supposed to see this email, but I did. And as much

as it's a breach of internal confidentiality or whatever, right now, it’s also a lifeline.

A lifeline that I sorely needed.