Chapter 0276
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 olddy contemting the avocados with a furrowed brow.
I’m weaving through the aisles, my list mental, each item being checked off with a physical counterpart
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 ast-minute detour for dessert ingredients, my mind already racing through the steps of the
chocte souffle I’ve decided will be the final course for tonight.
Chocte, 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 tosh 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 thest 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 sh, ignoring her calls.
Content is ? by N?velDrama.Org.
I’m running again, the bags swinging in my hands, a cacophony of clinks and rustles with each step. I
weave throughmuters 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 driveres 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 judgese, 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 particr as I look around at the mess in
front of me.
The ce is a disaster. nkets 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.
“Alright, Abby,” I say out loud, pushing up my stained sleeves. “Let’s get this over with.”
I begin by running around with a bag to pick up the trash that’s scattered around. A quick dash out to
the trash can, and that’s one thing done. Then, I get to work picking up dirtyundry, muddy shoes, and
various knick-knacks, which I toss into my bedroom, figuring that the judges will never see that—so
long as I keep the door shut tightly.
Now, it’s time for the dishes. I scrub frantically, the hot water scalding my hands until they’re all pink
and wrinkled; there’s no time for the dishwasher.
Dishes, check.
Wipe down counters, check.
But then, my reflection meets me just as I’m moving past the hallway mirror.
“God, I look like hell,” I mutter, taking in my haggard appearance. Sweat is caking my hair to my
forehead, my mascara is smudged, and my clothes are wrinkled and covered in stains. I haven’t even
begun prepping my ingredients yet, and I still need to shower, change, dry my hair, and put on makeup.
I nce at the clock and let out a sigh of relief. I’ve still got an hour and a half. That’s time enough for a
quick shower, right?
Right—so long as I get my cleaning done first, which is only halfway done. I still need to sweep,
vacuum, mop, and clean the stove. I need to fluff pillows, light candles, pick out music, and set the
dining room table—which, I’m just realizing, is still covered in clutter.
A curse escapes my lips, and for a moment, I can feel my resolve beginning to slip away. It feels as
though I’m back at the cook-off, on a stage under the hot lights with the crowd’s eyes on me, the
cameras following me throughout all of my horrible moments.
And I’m frozen just like I was when the announcer shoved the microphone in my face.
But that’s when I see it.
Her.
The little girl, her chef hat too big for her head, a haphazard sign in her tiny hands. “Abby, U R my
hero!”
Am I? Could I be?
“You’ve got this, Chef Abby! You’re my hero!” Re?d at Dr?mа?оvеls
I’m just about to grab the broom from the closet, though, when I hear it.
The doorbell.
My eyes widen, and I freeze. My gaze slowly drifts to the clock again: five forty-five. The judges aren’t
supposed to be here until seven! I haven’t showered, haven’t finished cleaning, haven’t prepped my
ingredients.
And the doorbell rings again.