Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

My eyes sparkle with intrigue. “Okay. You’re on.”
...
Eventually, the last of the staff say their goodbyes, flicking off the lights and
turning over chairs on tables. I’m almost tempted to do the same, to call it a
night and retreat into the comfort of my home, but then Karl re-enters my office,
holding two wine glasses and a bottle of my favorite Merlot in his hands.
“Ready?” he asks, setting the bottle down on my desk with a soft thud.
I glance at the bottle, then back at him. “Wine? Are you trying to get me drunk
before my big interview?”
Enter title...
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Karl chuckles, pulling the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop. “Of course
not. Just thought it’d help you relax, get you into the right mindset. Besides, I’m
thirsty.”
“I don’t know about you, but alcohol doesn’t exactly help me think clearer,” I say,

but I’m already reaching for one of the glasses he’s filling.”
He hands me the glass, our fingers brushing briefly. “And that’s why it’s just a
glass. Or two.”
“Fine,” I say, sipping the wine. “So how does this work? You ask me questions,
and I pretend like it’s the real thing?”
“Exactly,” he confirms, taking his own sip. “Ready for your first question?”
I nod. “Fire away.”
He picks up one of the index cards from my desk, skimming it before looking
back at me. “Alright. Tell me about a challenging situation you’ve faced in the
kitchen and how you handled it.”
I’m halfway through my answer when he interrupts me. “Wait. You’re not taking
this seriously enough. Stand up. Pretend like you’re actually at the interview.”
I set down my glass, a little exasperated. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he insists.
With a sigh, I stand, suddenly feeling like I’m on a stage. Karl also stands, a

serious look on his face. He pauses for a moment, chewing his lips, before
grabbing a lint roller off of a shelf and holding it out to me like a microphone.
“Better,” he says with a smirk.
“Seriously, Karl? A lint roller?”
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He chuckles. “Trust me, when a microphone is being shoved in your face, you’ll
be glad you had the practice.”
I huff. “Fine,” I say, starting over, detailing a kitchen crisis involving a burnt
turkey and a vegan substitute. He listens intently, nodding every now and then.
“Good,” he says when I finish. “Next question. What inspired you to become a
chef?”
This time, my answer flows easily. I talk about my mom, the smell of cinnamon
and sugar filling our home every Sunday, the sense of family and togetherness

that came from simple meals shared. When I’m finished, there’s a warm smile
on my face, and it’s not even intentional.
Karl smiles, clearly pleased. “See? You’re a natural at this.”
We continue this way for a while, downing another glass of wine each and
laughing more than we probably should be. We’re on what must be the fifth or
sixth question, something about culinary trends, when Karl suddenly puts down
the index card and looks at me, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“I have a question that’s not on the list,” he says, his voice taking on a sobering
tone.
My heart skips a beat. “Um, okay. Shoot.”
He takes a sip of his wine, setting the glass down. He then clears his throat and
levels his gaze with mine, and all at once, I feel like I might melt where I’m
standing.
“So, when you win the competition and have to cater the Alpha party... what will
you do with the date you were supposed to have with Karl?