Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0338

Abby

As I approach Mr. Thompson and the health inspector, I slip off my hood and my blue surgical mask,

sticking the mask in my pocket. I’m sure I look like a wreck at the moment, but that’s not at the forefront

of my mind right now.

“Morning, Abby,” Mr. Thompson says, his eyes filled with a confusing mixture of sympathy and

disappointment. He nods toward my pocket where I’ve just stored the mask. “Hiding, are we?”

I swallow, feeling small under their gazes. “I usually wear a mask on the subway,” I lie, not wanting to

admit that I’m already terrified of the backlash that this entire debacle will create.

Mr. Thompson nods slowly, then turns to the health inspector. “Abby, this is Mr. Harrison,” he says,

gesturing to the portly older man wearing a tan jacket with a health department emblem on it. “Mr.

Harrison, this is Abby, the owner of this restaurant.”

Mr. Harrison shoots me an indifferent look and doesn’t so much as shake my hand. He simply nods,

pulling the clipboard out from under his arm. “Well, Abby,” he says in a voice that screams cold

professionalism, “shall we get started?” Material © of NôvelDrama.Org.

I nod nervously, hoping beyond hope that I don’t look too disheveled and terrified. I fish my keys out of

my pocket and brush past the two men. My hands shake as I unlock the door, and I accidentally drop

my keys.

“Sorry,” I murmur as I stoop to pick up the keys. “Butter fingers this morning.”

“Nervous, Abby?” the health inspector says as I struggle to open the door.

“Er, a little,” I manage with a wry chuckle. I finally am able to unlock the door and push it open,

revealing my dark restaurant. The tables are still in a state of disarray from last night, but other than

that, it’s as spotless as ever.

“Well,” Mr. Harrison says as he brushes past me, already jotting down notes on his clipboard as he

looks around, “if your restaurant is as clean as you say, then you shouldn’t be worried, correct?”

I swallow. While the health inspector’s back is turned, I glance at Mr. Thompson; but his expression is

inscrutable, and I quickly look away. I hate to say it, but it hurts, and it makes hot tears prick at the

backs of my eyes,

After all we’ve been through together, I’d like to think that Mr. Thompson is just acting this way because

the spirit of professionalism demands it, but I can tell that he’s disappointed in me—and maybe in

himself, to a certain extent.

For the next half hour, the health inspector walks painstakingly around the dining area. He checks

every table, inspects every corner, swabs every door knob with a Q-tip.

He spends even more time at the bar, taking more samples to add to his growing vial collection and

taking photographs. The whole time, I feel as if my heart is in my throat.

Finally, he turns to me with a nod.

“Kitchen?” he asks, his gaze cold and calculating.

“Yes,” I say, gesturing toward the hallway that leads to the kitchen. “Right this way.”

I lead the two men down the hallway, pausing for a split second as I reach the door to take a deep

breath. My team and I painstakingly cleaned the kitchen last night before we left, but in my mind, all I

can picture is a disaster. It’s as if I expect the kitchen to be filled with rats and garbage.

But, when I open the door, it’s as clean as ever.

“Looks clean enough on the surface,” the health inspector says.

I manage a chuckle, although it sounds like nails on chalkboard to my ears right now. “My team and I

are very thorough—” I begin, but he cuts me off with a raise of his hand.

“We’ll see about that,” he mutters under his breath, his tone far from reassuring.

For what feels like an eternity, he inspects every nook and cranny, checking storage areas,

refrigerators, and even the ventilation system. His scrutiny is relentless, and I can feel the minutes

ticking away, each one dragging me closer toward what feels like impending doom.

Finally, he straightens up, his expression inscrutable. “Your kitchen appears to be clean,” he concedes,

though his tone lacks any hint of satisfaction.

Relief surges through me, but it's short-lived.

“However,” he continues, “I’ll be sending samples of your food and all of the swabs I’ve taken to the lab

for testing. Until we receive the results and ensure your food is safe, I’m afraid I have no choice but to

close down your restaurant.”

My heart sinks, and I can’t help but protest. “But closing the restaurant will be devastating for business!

We’ve worked so hard to build a reputation, and now—”

The health inspector raises a hand to cut me off once again. “I understand your concerns, but I have a

responsibility to the safety of the public. If there’s any chance that your food was what caused the

recent outbreak, we must take the proper precautions. It’s simply protocol.”

Mr. Thompson, who has been watching the proceedings in silence all morning, approaches me with a

disappointed look in his eyes.

“Abby,” he begins, his voice heavy with regret, “I’ve been a staunch advocate for you, vouching for your

abilities, and now it seems I’ve made a grave error in judgment.”

I raise my head to meet his gaze, shame and despair weighing me down. “Mr. Thompson, you have to

understand that this wasn’t my fault,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I’ve given my all to make this

Alpha party a success. Don’t abandon me now.”

He turns away before I can answer, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a profound sense of guilt.

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I can’t help it; the tears finally slip out, rolling down my cheeks in two tiny rivers. A silent sob shakes my

body, and I have to grip the edge of the chair until my knuckles turn white in order to keep myself

grounded.

This isn’t fair.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if this is yet another act of sabotage. It’s a thought that constantly nags at

the back of my mind, an unsettling notion that someone might want to see me fail.

But who could do something so awful, so evil? And why did it need to happen to me?