Page 176 of Clinically Delicious
“Mushroom risotto. And roasted chicken. And those little potatoes you like with the rosemary. And I made browniesearlier, but the boys found them and ate half the pan, so I made another batch, but then I ate three of those because the baby wanted chocolate, and—” She paused, her eyes widening. “Oh God, I’m doing it again. The rambling thing. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love the rambling thing.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
It was true.
Three years ago, I would have found it exhausting. Overwhelming. A disruption to the careful order I’d built my life around.
Three years ago, I’d thought structure was everything. Control was everything. Maintaining boundaries and schedules and routines was the only way to survive.
Three years ago, I’d been living half a life and didn’t even know it.
Then Cate had walked through my door—late, flustered, and turned my entire world upside down.
She’d broken my daughter’s arm.
She’d made dinner by candlelight and looked at me like I was something more than just a surgeon, just a father, just a man going through the motions.
She’d married me in a courthouse with Fitz as a witness and made it real.
She’d loved my daughter like she was her own.
She’d given me two more children—chaos incarnate in matching dinosaur pajamas—and was about to give me a third.
She’d filled my house with glitter and laughter and noise and life.
She was crazy as hell. A bit neurotic. Prone to spiraling and stress-baking and saying things like “towel situation” in moments of crisis.
She was my everything.
The love of my life.
Mine.
“Gabriel?” Cate’s voice pulled me back. “You okay? You’re looking at me weird.”
“I’m looking at you like I love you,” I said.
Her smile was radiant. “Oh. Well. In that case, carry on.”
From the living room: “DAD! BARK ATE MY DINOSAUR!”
“MINE!” one of the boys wailed.
“BOYS, sharing is caring!”
Cate sighed. “I should—”
“I’ll handle it,” I said, pressing one more kiss to her temple. “You finish dinner.”
“Are you sure? Because last time you ‘handled it,’ they convinced you to build a catapult out of popsicle sticks and launched grapes at the ceiling.”
“That was one time.”
“There are still grape stains up there.”
