Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0276

Abby

“Shit!” I call out, tossing the soggy spinach into the trash. “Wet. All of it.”

My ingredients got wet from the mini-flood—almost all of them, at least. I'll have to buy new ingredients, and in this city, driving is slower than walking. Before Anton or John can utter a word, I'm already bolting out of the restaurant and down the street.

The grocery store is a short sprint away, and I'm moving faster than I ever thought possible. Before I know it, the automatic doors are sliding open. I grab a basket and make a beeline for the vegetables first.

“Excuse me,” I murmur as I sidestep a little old lady contemplating the avocados with a furrowed brow. I'm weaving through the aisles, my list mental, each item being checked off with a physical counterpart landing in the basket. Olive oil, check. Fresh basil, check. Sea salt, check.

The meat counter is next, and I slide in just as another customer drifts away.

“Two pounds of your best salmon, skin on, and make it quick, please,” I say, the words rushing out of me like a tsunami. The butcher nods, his movements efficient as he wraps the fish. I want to tap my foot, to rush him, but I don't. He's quick enough, thankfully.

I make a last-minute detour for dessert ingredients, my mind already racing through the steps of the chocolate souffle I've decided will be the final course for tonight.

Chocolate, eggs, heavy cream. The basics. And I'm done.

But the cashier is another story. It's like she's moving in slow motion, taking her sweet time despite the obvious frantic movements I'm exhibiting right in front of her. It takes all of my willpower not to lash out, although I can't quite hold in the frantic tapping of my foot.

“Sorry,” she says, as she rescans a can of coconut milk that didn’t beep the first time. Or the second. Or the third. “It's not registering.”

“It's fine,” I assure her, my tone betraying none of my inner scream. “Just... could you please try to hurry? It's rather urgent.”

"Oh, of course!” She smiles, but her hands are still moving at a snails’ pace.

Finally, she bags the last item, and I'm swiping my card before she can tell me the total. Approved. I don't wait for the receipt, and just grab my bags and dash out the door in a flash, ignoring her calls. I'm running again, the bags swinging in my hands, a cacophony of clinks and rustles with each step. I weave through commuters on their way home from work, dodge a kid on a skateboard, and leap over a puddle that's practically a miniature pond. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the Find ɴøᴠel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

A honk snaps me back to reality as a taxi driver comes to a screeching halt in the crosswalk.

"Hey! Watch it!” the driver yells out his window. All I can do is offer a wave that's half-apology, half- dismissal.

By the time I make it home, I'm coated in sweat. Shit. I'll need a shower before the judges come, that's for sure.

I burst through my apartment door, and that's when I freeze.

“I've been neglecting you, haven't I?” I mutter to no one in particular as I look around at the mess in front of me.

The place is a disaster. Blankets are unfolded, shoes are scattered near the door, the carpet hasn't been vacuumed in weeks and mail is piled up on the coffee table. The kitchen is even worse: takeout food containers, unwashed dishes, more mail somehow, and dirty counters.

Who the hell do I think I am, to think I could pass this disaster off as “clean and professional”?

But now is not the time to stand here and wonder. I need to move. Once the ingredients are in the fridge, I get to work.

"Alright, Abby,” I say out loud, pushing up my stained sleeves. “Let's get this over with.”

I begin by running around with a bag to pick up the trash that's scattered around. A quick dash out to the trash can, and that's one thing done. Then, I get to work picking up dirty laundry, muddy shoes, and various knick-knacks, which I toss into my bedroom, figuring that the judges will never see that—so long as I keep the door shut tightly.

Now, it's time for the dishes. I scrub frantically, the hot water scalding my hands until they're all pink and wrinkled; there's no time for the dishwasher.

Dishes, check.

Wipe down counters, check.

But then, my reflection meets me just as I'm moving past the hallway mirror.

“God, I look like hell,” I mutter, taking in my haggard appearance. Sweat is caking my hair to my forehead, my mascara is smudged, and my clothes are wrinkled and covered in stains. I haven't even begun prepping my ingredients yet, and I still need to shower, change, dry my hair, and put on makeup.

I glance at the clock and let out a sigh of relief. I've still got an hour and a half. That's time enough for a quick shower, right?

Right—so long as I get my cleaning done first, which is only halfway done. I still need to sweep, vacuum, mop, and clean the stove. I need to fluff pillows, light candles, pick out music, and set the dining room table—which, I'm just realizing, is still covered in clutter.

A curse escapes my lips, and for a moment, I can feel my resolve beginning to slip away. It feels as though I'm back at the cook-off, on a stage under the hot lights with the crowd's eyes on me, the cameras following me throughout all of my horrible moments.

And I'm frozen just like I was when the announcer shoved the microphone in my face.

But that's when I see it.

Her.

The little girl, her chef hat too big for her head, a haphazard sign in her tiny hands. “Abby, U R my hero!”

Am 1? Could I be?

She's not here, not really, but as I stare at my reflection, it's like I can see her there. It's as if she's behind me, holding up her sign, pushing her too-big chef's hat out of her eyes. And for a moment, even though I've never heard her voice, it feels as though I can hear her now.

"You've got this, Chef Abby! You're my hero!”

And that's when I spring into action again. I begin with the dining table, sorting and gathering the clutter. I wipe it down with a cloth, then grab a pristine white tablecloth from the linen closet and lay it down with a runner on top, followed by a centerpiece.

I'm just about to grab the broom from the closet, though, when I hear it.

The doorbell.

My eyes widen, and I freeze. My gaze slowly drifts to the clock again: five forty-five. The judges aren't supposed to be here until seven! I haven't showered, haven't finished cleaning, haven't prepped my ingredients.

This is a disaster. My second chance... it means nothing now. All I can do is stare at my haggard reflection, a single tear rolling down my cheek. The little girl in my memory is gone now, replaced by a menacing figure with a match in his hand, grinning at my downfall

And the doorbell rings again.

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