Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

A few minutes later, Anton’s hands are washed, his long hair is pulled back, and an apron is covering his

grimy clothes. Karl, John, and I are sitting on stools on the opposite side of the counter while Anton

inspects each ingredient carefully, like he’s preparing to build something magnificent.

Karl clears his throat, clearly itching to say something snarky but holding back for my sake. “So, Anton,

are you gonna cook this mystery dish? Or was all that just talk?”

Anton smirks, picking up a chef’s knife with a familiarity to his mannerisms that leaves me somewhat

taken aback. “Just watch.”

The room falls silent. John moves closer to get a better view, while Karl and I shoot each other a glance,

half out of respect, half out of disbelief. Anton’s fingers fly through the air, chopping onions, mincing garlic,

and handling the black truffles with an expertise that makes my jaw drop.

Enter title…

“How did you…?” John begins, but Anton silences him with a raised finger.

“Patience, my friend.”

I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s not just cooking; it’s like he’s performing in front of an audience, a

well-practiced show that he’s been putting on over and over again for decades now. It’s both fascinating

and overwhelming at the same time. I could only ever dream of being as skilled as he is.

The room starts to fill with the scent of garlic and onions cooking in olive oil, intermingling with the earthy

aroma of the truffles. My mouth waters uncontrollably, and I shoot Karl a glance. His eyes meet mine, and

in that instant, I see the walls of his skepticism crack, if only a little.

Anton looks up from the stove, his eyes locking onto mine. “Would you pass me the white wine, Miss

Abby?”

I hand it to him, and he pours a generous splash into the pan. The liquid sizzles as it hits the hot surface,

and Anton stirs, a hint of a smile gracing his l*ps.

“Always deglaze the pan,” he mutters, more to himself than to us. “The real flavor is in the ‘fond’—the little

bits that are stuck to the bottom.”

Minutes feel like seconds, and before we know it, Anton is sliding the pan off the stove, stepping back as if

he’s an artist who has just unveiled a masterpiece.

“Et voila,” he says with a flourish. “Now, who wants to taste? Karl? Why don’t you try first?”

Karl lets out a small huff and stands, although I can tell he’s trying not to act too impressed. He steps up to

the counter and stabs the fork into the pasta, then lifts it to his mouth and takes a hesitant bite.

His eyes widen, his face softening in a way I’ve never seen before as he slowly chews the food, raising his

hand to cover his mouth. “Oh my god. That’s—That’s incredible.”

John goes next, and his reaction is just as intense. “Excuse the language, but holy shit, man. That’s the

best thing I’ve ever tasted. Abby, you’ve gotta try this.”

I’m last, and as I step up to the counter, for some reason my heart is pounding.

“Go on, Miss Abby,” Anton says, his voice soft, noticing my trepidation. “I think you’ll like it the most.”