Page 11 of Clinically Delicious
Chapter Six
Cate
He was back.
My masked, shirtless, butter-knife-wielding ninja. This time, just for extra flair, he was roaring down the street on a motorcycle, looking like Jax Teller fromSons of Anarchywielding a kitchen utensil drawer.
Yeah, don’t ask me what that meant.
My subconscious clearly missed the memo about subtlety.
The distant roar of an engine faded as I blinked awake, reality seeping in with the dull ache of morning. Groaning, I peeked my head out from under my pillow and wanted to cry.
Yep, I was still in my childhood bedroom.
“Gah!” I groaned, flopping onto my back, squinting at a ceiling that frankly owed me an apology for bearing witness to my misery. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”
Great.
That meant another glorious day of babysitting chaos, drama, and—if my intuition was correct—the likelihood of seeing New Haven’s finest fire department traipse through Dr. Lyon’s living room.
Not that I was complaining, mind you.
If anything, chaos kept things interesting.
And who wanted boring anyway?
Besides... firefighters? Yummy with a capital Y.
Sure, my heart was mostly spoken for by my mysterious masked ninja,but let’s be real... any God-fearing woman would never say no to a discreet, or not-so-discreet peek at a smokin’ hot firefighter in action.
Purely for safety reasons, of course.
I sighed and rolled over, letting my gaze drift between the familiar posters on my walls and the soft light leaking through the blinds. For a brief second, I debated whether hiding under the covers until noon would count as an act of self-care or just plain cowardice.
Don’t get me wrong. I genuinely didn’t mind spending my days wrangling Megan, the irrepressible five-year-old tornado and daughter of my boss, Dr. Lyon. Watching her test the laws of physics and occasionally the limits of my sanity while her father saved lives at the hospital had to be worth the battle scars I would no doubt soon receive, right? But I wasn’t entirely sure how Dr. Lyon would react to another day full of Megan’s patented “adventures,” especially after what happened yesterday.
With a dramatic sigh worthy of a daytime soap opera, I flung the covers off and rolled sideways, contorting like a circus performer to rescue my battered cellphone from the nightstand. As I surveyed my room—a cardboard city of unpacked boxes that should’ve been gathering dust in my luxurious, fantasy-apartment in Boston by now—I marveled at my adaptability. Or maybe it was just my uncanny knack for turning “plans” into “interesting stories for future therapy sessions.”
Those boxes were supposed to mark the start of my bright new future. You know, the one where I was climbing the career ladder at that prestigious job in Boston. The job my ex-best friend... yes, the very one who taught me that trust falls were strictly for team-building retreats and not for life, swiped right out from under me.
Classic.
But hey, water under the burned bridge, right?
I was determined to rise above, even if Karma was taking her sweet time mixing up that cosmic pie of paybacks, which were a bitch. Admittedly, I hoped she’d serve my ex-BFF a heaping slice with extra whipped cream just for laughs.
Limbering up for a day of glorified child-wrangling, I stretched and thumbed open Facebook, bracing myself for the usual barrage of engagement rings, cat memes, and “motivational” quotes from people with suspiciously perfect lives.
I was ready for anything.
Or so I thought.
Then, as if choreographed by the universe’s cruelest comedy writer, my eyes practically launched from my skull. I shot upright, phone gripped like a lifeline. There it was: a post from the ex-best friend herself. My former confidante, now officially the Benedict Arnold of baked goods, announcing to the entire world, and, more importantly to me, that she had just been promoted to...Sous Chef!
“Oh, the BETRAYAL!” I wailed.
After seeing my ex-best friend’s triumphant, cake-filled promotion post, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d need an alibi before noon. No matter how many times I tried to laugh it off, I could practically hear my mother insisting that “everything happens for a reason,” but what I really wanted was a reason that didn’t include police, firefighters, and the possibility of thirty-years to life. Maybe my melodramatic overthinking was getting the best of me, but my brain refused to let this sitcom-worthy disaster go quietly.
