Page 20 of Clinically Delicious
My mom’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Because he was what?”
“Nothing. He was nothing. He was just... wet.”
“Wet,” she repeated, clearly enjoying this far too much.
“Wet and—” I clamped my mouth shut, but the damage was done. I could see it written all over her face. She knew. She absolutely knew that I’d noticed Gabriel Lyon was attractive, and that this was somehow worse than the actual humiliation of the “towel situation” comment.
“He’s your boss,” my mom said gently, but there was still amusement in her voice.
“I know.”
“And you’re his nanny.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you just told him he was busy with his towel situation.”
“Can wepleasestop saying that?”
She patted my knee. “Honey, you’re going to have to face him eventually. You can’t hide in your parents’ house forever.”
“Watch me,” I said darkly. “I’m very committed to this plan.”
“Monday morning,” she said, “you’re going to walk in there, and you’re going to act like nothing happened. You’re going to be professional and competent and—”
“And he’s going to remember ‘towel-gate,’” I finished. “He’s going to remember it forever. It’s going to be the thing he thinks about when he thinks about me. Not that I’m a good nanny. Not that I care about Megan. Just... ‘towel situation’ girl.”
My mom stood up and offered me her hand. “Come on. Let’s get you some ice cream and we can strategize how you’re going to survive Monday without dying of embarrassment.”
I took her hand and let her pull me up. “I don’t think ice cream can fix this.”
“Ice cream can fix anything,” she said firmly. “Well, almost anything. But it’s a good start.”
As she led me toward the kitchen, I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror—flushed face, wild hair, the general appearance of someone who’d just been through a minor apocalypse.
Monday was going to be a disaster.
But at least I had the weekend to prepare myself mentally.
Or to practice saying “good morning” without accidentally mentioning towels.
Whichever came first.
