Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 338

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?”

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.