Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0260

Abby

As soon as the door opens and Mr. Thompson’s figure appears in the doorway, my heart jumps into my

throat.

A palpable wave of embarrassment washes over me; I’m suddenly painfully aware of my disheveled

appearance.

My hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few stray locks defiantly escaping, and my clothes are not

the crisp, chef whites that once defined my professional persona but rather a loose sweater and jeans

combo that screams “I’ve given up on the kitchen.”

“Mr. Thompson, uh, hello,” I stammer, standing up from my chair so abruptly it screeches against the

floor.

“Hello, Abby,” Mr. Thompson says.

I swallow. What is he doing here? “Please, come in.” I gesture towards the chair opposite my cluttered

desk, hastily shoving papers into piles to create a semblance of order.

He steps inside, his gaze sweeping the room—the piles of paperwork, the empty coffee cups, the trash

can overflowing with discarded papers and junk mail—with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asks, his gaze finally settling on me once more.

I shake my head vehemently. “No, I…” I pause, clearing my throat as my gaze falls onto a particular

spot on my desk where I spilled coffee yesterday and never cleaned it up; it’s sticky and sweet-

smelling, with rings on the papers where I set the cup down. “I was just doing some paperwork.”

Mr. Thompson holds my gaze for a moment. There’s a knowing look in his eyes, but there’s something

else there, too. Something that almost borders on regret.

“Well,” he says, “there’s something I need to speak to you about. It’s actually quite urgent, so I hope

you don’t mind that I decided to come here in person rather than call or send an email.”

His seriousness takes me by surprise. Mr. Thompson was always professional, but typically jovial at the

same time aside from the reporter incident. Now, though, his face is an unreadable mask.

A twist of anxiety knots in my stomach, and I find myself motioning to the seat again. “Of course.

Please, sit.”

He does, and the air between us is charged with a quiet intensity. He’s holding something, I notice: a

DVD case. It’s unmarked.

I try to smooth down my sweater, a futile attempt at pulling myself together, as I settle back into my own

chair. “Is that for me?” I ask, nodding toward the DVD.

“It is,” he confirms. “There’s something you need to see.”

My curiosity peaks. “What is it?”

He hands me the DVD, and I notice that his hands are shaking ever so slightly. “It’s footage from the

night of the competition. From the security cameras.”Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

There was the argument with Daniel, of course. I almost slapped him for his cruel words, but I never

did. Surely he can’t press charges for that. Coոtent оf Draмaոovеls.cом

Unless… Is it about Karl and Daniel’s sous chef?

“Should I be worried?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I’m not entirely sure if I want to know the

answer.

“Just watch,” he says, nodding his head toward my computer screen.