Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 276

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.

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.