Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0220

“John, finally!” I call out, stepping through the turnstile. “Are you ready? I’m about to hop on the

subway, on my way to your place. I’ll be there in ten minutes, max.”

“Abby,” he croaks, and instantly, I know something’s not right. I freeze in my tracks. The life and

vibrancy in his voice are gone, replaced by something that sounds a lot like misery.

“John? You sound awful. Are you okay?”

He coughs. “I... I was up all night, throwing up. I feel terrible, Abby.” His voice sounds like a poker being

raked over hot coals.

Instantly, the scolding mom in me surfaces. “Oh my God, John, did you drink too much last night? We

talked about this—today is important! I told you we could only have a couple drinks each, no more!”

“No, no, you don’t get it,” he interrupts, his voice shaky. “I only had one drink, nothing more. I swear,

Abby. It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?” I asked, my heart practically pounding out of my chest.

He sighed. “I think it’s food poisoning or something. Look, I’m really, really sick, Abby. I might even

have to go to the hospital if this doesn’t let up.” Belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

My blood runs cold, my hand tightening around my phone until my knuckles go white. “Hospital? Are

you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. Do you think I would joke about something like this? Especially today?”

The despair in his voice cuts through me, and instantly, I feel a little bad for scolding him. He coughs

again and clears his throat, and I can practically hear him wince from the pain.

“Oh, John,” I murmur, clutching my coffee cup so tight I might crush it. “Shit.”

“I’m really sorry, Abby, but I think it goes without saying that there’s no way I can be your sous chef for

the competition today.”

My mind races, flipping through a whole host of emotions—worry for John, frustration at the situation,

and fear for what this means for me and the competition. I need a sous chef. All of the contestants

have to have a sous chef.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” I call out, more to myself than to him. “What do I do now? I have to be at

the studio in two hours.”

“Listen, why don’t you call Anton?” John suggests after a beat. “He’s really good and he knows the way

you operate. He could fill in easily.”

“I’ll be fine, Abby. Just worry about the cook-off,” John’s voice trembles through the speaker. “I’m really

sorry, Abby.”

“I will,” he repeats, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the dial tone and my spiraling thoughts.

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Anton. And I just hope, beyond all hope, that he’s not just as sick as John.