Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 220

“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.

Enter title…

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.”

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, fl*pping 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. Content belongs to Drаmаոovеls.coм

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

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