Page 51 of Clinically Delicious
Chapter Fourteen
Cate
I’d done it.
One full week of keeping Megan alive, and miracles upon miracles, the kid was still breathing, still had all her limbs attached, and hadn’t acquired any additional broken bones.
Sure, there’d been some close calls. The incident with the scissors and the “art project” that nearly resulted in an impromptu haircut. The time she’d decided to “help” with laundry and almost turned all of Gabriel’s dress shirts pink. The moment I’d looked away for thirty seconds and found her attempting to climb onto the kitchen counter to reach the “special cookies” on the top shelf.
But she was alive. Intact. Unharmed.
I was basically a child-care prodigy.
Or incredibly lucky.
Probably the second one.
The week had been a careful dance of pretending everything was normal while actively avoiding thinking aboutthe dinner. The candlelit, romantic-looking, completely-not-romantic dinner where I’d cooked my heart out and Gabriel had looked at me like—Nope!
Not thinking about it.
Not thinking about the way his voice had gone all low and rough when he’d said, “exceptionally good.”
Not thinking about the moment our fingers had touched when I’d handed him those plates and I felt like I’d been electrocuted.
Not thinking about how I’d basically fled his house like my hair was on fire.
Professional. I was being professional. He was my boss. I was his employee. The nanny. The person responsible for his daughter’s well-being, not the person who should be having increasingly detailed fantasies about—NOPE!
Moving on.
The point was: I’d survived the week. And now I had the weekend off, which meant I could escape to Boston, see some old friends, and pretend my life wasn’t a complete disaster held together by anxiety and prayer.
Boston.
The city where my dreams had died.
The city where Tracy had stolen my future.
The city I’d been avoiding for six months because every street corner reminded me of what I’d lost.
This was going to be great. Super fun. Definitely not emotionally devastating.
I stood on the train platform, second-guessing every life choice that had led me here. Maybe I should just go home. Curl up with some ice cream and watch cooking shows while crying into a pillow. That was a solid weekend plan.
But no, I’d promised Emma I’d meet her for coffee. Emma, who’d been my friend since culinary school, who’d actually kept in touch, who didn’t steal my job and my future and my—Deep breath.
I was fine.
Everything was fine.
The train pulled into South Station, and I stepped onto the platform, immediately hit by the familiar smell of the city—exhaust and coffee and that indefinable Boston smell that was somehow both nostalgic and nauseating.
I had made it three blocks toward the coffee shop when I heard someone call out behind me.
“Holy shit, is that Gabriel’s nanny?”
I froze.
