Page 4 of Clinically Delicious
Honestly, I could demolish a burger right now. Food was my therapist, my confidante, my comfort blanket, and my personal sculptor—enthusiastically adding to my curves, one bite at a time.
But my dream man? He had no complaints. Not a single one.
He was all about my curves. Apparently, my subconscious was also a fervent supporter of enthusiastic wall-related activities. The strangest part? Each time I had that dream, which, for the record, involved a lot more than just leaning against a wall, I would wake up feeling almost as if I’d really lived it. Experienced it. All this despite never actually having met the guy, as far as I could remember. His face? Forever lost in shadow, a tantalizing mystery hiding in the dim corners of my mind. It was less“romantic”and more“mysterious stalker who enjoys cardio.”The yearning, though, that was real. A deep, slow burn for more. More of whatever that dream was about.
Even though it made zero sense.
Then again, maybe I was just nervous.
As I shook off the lingering heat of my mysterious dream man, reality crashed back.
Today was babysitting day.
And yes, I had plenty of reasons to feel jittery.
Yep, you read that right.I, a twenty-four-year-old whose resume could fit on a cocktail napkin, was gearing up to wrangle toddlers. Not exactly the career trajectory I’d envisioned. I had aspirations of becoming an “International Burger Connoisseur”, but a job was a job, especially when my bank account was starting to resemble a famine relief poster.
“Cate, hurry!”
I collapsed onto my bed with a melodramatic groan, squeezing my eyes shut. My new Egyptian cotton sheets, hand-stitched and embarrassingly expensive, were supposed to be my ticket to next-level self-care after myWeek of Ultimate Betrayal. Instead, they felt about as comforting as a soggy napkin against the tidal wave of injustice crashing over me.
Here I was, sprawled out in my childhood bedroom, glaring at a unicorn poster—yes, a unicorn juggling flaming bowlingpins—instead of basking in the post-shift glow of culinary greatness.
That poster? A phase.
A very passionate, possibly hazardous phase.
I was supposed to be in Boston right now. Dicing shallots with samurai-level finesse. Wowing the city’s foodies as the next big thing in a top-tier kitchen.But noooo... I was benched, all thanks to Tracy, my ex-BFF and secret agent of my culinary demise. She didn’t just tag along for my big chef audition—she hijacked it!
While I nervously presented my signature reduction, Tracy got cozy with the sous chef. Who, for the record, had enough hair gel to qualify as a fire hazard. Somehow, she managed to convince him I was the reason her béarnaise split, and before I could say “culinary sabotage,” I was out—fired before I’d even clocked in. So now, instead of dazzling a restaurant, I was left debating the emotional merits of unicorn wall art and wondering if betrayal by a best friend was tax deductible.
This wasn’t just a case of“oops, sorry!”betrayal. Tracy executed her power-play with the subtlety of a caffeinated badger. I’d brought her along for moral support, imagining us dazzling the chef as a dynamic duo. Instead, she went full secret agent—deploying hair flips and kittenish purrs while throwing me under the bus, all in one swift maneuver. Apparently, kitchen knives weren’t the only things besties sharpened.
“CATE!”
“Gah!” I puffed, jolting upright. “I’M COMING!” I barked back, channeling my inner startled squirrel. Clutching my backpack, I glanced around at my old room and whispered, “I miss my apartment.”
Not that Egyptian cotton sheets and unicorn posters could ever fill that void.
Closing my bedroom door, I hurried down the stairs to find my parents sitting at the kitchen table. Mom looked up slowly, shaking her head as she spoke. “You are going to be late,” she warned, her tone gentle but firm.
Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I muttered, “I don’t see how, with you screaming my name every five minutes.”
“Dr. Lyon is a very nice man, Cate. He just needs someone reliable. He’s not had the best of luck with nannies,” Mom said, pouring herself another cup of tea.
I reached for an apple out of the bowl on the table and groaned, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, and his daughter is just lovely. I think the three of you will get along splendidly... if you’re not late,” Mom replied, her eyes softening.
Rolling my eyes, I sighed. “Fine, Mom. I’m leaving. Don’t want to get stuck in the morning commute.”
Dad chuckled, flipping the page of his newspaper.
“Don’t encourage her, Dale,” Mom scoffed, swatting him with her tea-towel. “Cate would be late to her own funeral if she could.”
Dad winked at me, folding his paper as he stood. Leaning over, he kissed Mom’s cheek. “That would never happen, dear, because she would have you there to get her to the service on time. I need to get going myself. Traffic is horrible on Mondays. I’ll see you tonight, my love.”
“Miss you already,” Mom said as Dad headed for the door.
