Page 45 of Clinically Delicious
Chapter Thirteen
Gabriel
This was a mistake.
I knew it the moment I walked through the door and saw the dining room transformed—candles flickering on the table, the smell of something incredible wafting from the kitchen, and Cate standing there looking nervous and proud and completely unaware of what she’d done.
She’d created a scene that looked like every fantasy I’d been trying not to have.
Candlelight. A home-cooked meal. The woman who’d been invading my thoughts for days was looking at me with those wide eyes, waiting for my reaction.
And Megan, thank God for Megan, bouncing between us with excitement about zesting lemons and being a sous chef, providing the only barrier between me and doing something catastrophically stupid.
“This looks incredible,” I said, and I meant it.
The chicken was plated like something from a high-end restaurant—golden and glistening with sauce, pasta twirled into a perfect nest, fresh herbs scattered artfully across the plate. Professional. Skilled. Another layer to Cate that I hadn’t expected.
Another reason to be fascinated by her.
Another reasonthiswas dangerous.
“It’s just chicken,” Cate said, but I could hear the pride in her voice. “Nothing fancy.”
It was absolutely fancy.
And she knew it.
I pulled out her chair before I could think better of it, some ingrained instinct taking over. She looked up at me, startled, and I caught a hint of her scent—something light and floral that made my jaw tighten.
Professional.
This was professional.
My nanny had cooked dinner as an apology. A kind gesture. Nothing more.
The fact that it looked like a date was coincidental.
The fact that I’d grabbed her hand and asked her to stay was necessary. She’d cooked this meal. She should eat it.
Simple logic,right?
The fact that I wanted her to stay for entirely different reasons was irrelevant.
I sat down across from her, Megan between us at the head of the table, chattering about the cooking process. Safe. Appropriate. A family dinner with my daughter present.
Except it didn’t feel safe.
It felt like sitting on a powder keg.
“Try it, Dad!” Megan urged, already twirling pasta onto her fork.
I cut into the chicken. The knife slid through it like butter—perfectly cooked, tender, the kind of technique that took years to master.
I took a bite.
Fuck.
It was extraordinary. The sauce was bright with lemon but balanced with butter, the capers adding just enough brine,and the chicken itself seasoned perfectly. Restaurant quality. Better than restaurant quality, because it was made here, in my kitchen, by the woman sitting across from me, looking anxious and hopeful.
