Page 63 of Clinically Delicious
“How wrecked?”
“She tried to play it off, but she was clearly devastated. We walked her to the train and made sure she got home okay. But,Gabriel, she looked like someone had kicked her while she was down.”
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Someone had hurt her.
Had made her feel small and worthless, and like she’d failed.
And I hadn’t been there.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because you care about her,” Fitz said simply. “Don’t try to deny it. We all know. And she needs someone right now, even if she won’t admit it.”
“She’s my employee.”
“She’s also a person who’s hurting. And you’re the person who can help.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Figure it out,” Fitz said. “You’re smart. You’ll think of something.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I sat there in my office, staring at the phone, my mind racing.
Cate was hurting.
Someone had made her feel like she wasn’t good enough, like her life was a failure, like she’d ended up somewhere she didn’t belong. And I wanted to find this Tracy person and make her understand exactly how wrong she was. I wanted to tell Cate that she was brilliant and talented and the best thing that had happened to my household in years. I wanted to cross every professional boundary I’d carefully maintained and pull her into my arms and tell her she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
But I couldn’t.
Could I?
The professional distance I’d been maintaining suddenly felt less like protection and more like cowardice.
She was hurting, and I was hiding behind rules and boundaries and the excuse of propriety.
I thought about the dinner she’d made. The skill, the care, the way she’d transformed simple ingredients into something extraordinary. I thought about the way she was with Megan—patient, creative, genuinely invested in my daughter’s happiness. I thought about the way she looked in the candlelight, the sounds she made, the electricity between us that neither of us could deny. And I thought about her face this morning—sad, subdued, trying so hard to pretend everything was fine.
Fuck the boundaries.
Fuck the professional distance.
Fuck the careful control I’d been clinging to.
She needed someone, and I was going to be that someone.
Even if I had no idea how.
Even if it meant risking everything I’d been trying to protect.
I looked at the clock. Four-fifteen PM. I could leave early, get home before my usual time, and catch her before she left for the day.
Talk to her.
Actually talk to her, not the careful professional exchanges we’d been having since last week.
