Page 31 of Clinically Delicious
“Yeah, but Dad said you looked ‘spooked.’” She made air quotes with her good hand. “What does spooked mean?”
It means your father answered the door in a towel and I lost all cognitive function, but we’re not going to talk about that.
“It means surprised,” I said, forcing a smile. “Now, what do you want for breakfast?”
As Megan launched into an elaborate description of her ideal pancake situation, I heard Fitz’s footsteps heading toward the front door, followed by the sound of it closing.
I exhaled.
Okay. Crisis averted. Fitz is gone. Gabriel is on a call. I can do this. I can make pancakes and be professional and absolutely not think about—“Cate?”
I froze.
That voice. Deep, familiar, coming from down the hall.
Gabriel’s voice.
I turned slowly, like a character in a horror movie who knows the killer is behind them but looks anyway.
Gabriel stood in the hallway, fully dressed in faded jeans and a stone-washed T-shirt, phone in hand, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“You’re here,” he said.
“I’m here,” I confirmed, my voice only slightly strangled.
We stared at each other.
All my carefully rehearsed greetings evaporated like morning dew under a blowtorch.
“Good morning?” I tried.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Fitz let you in.”
“He did.”
“He didn’t... say anything inappropriate, did he?”
Oh God. Did Gabriel know? Could he tell? Was there some kind of pheromone that Fitz had left on me that signaled, “this man just licked his lips at your nanny”?
“He was... friendly,” I managed.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “I’ll bet he was.”
And there it was—that same tension from Saturday night, crackling in the air between us like static electricity before a storm.
Megan, oblivious to the entire situation, tugged on my sleeve. “Pancakes, Cate! You promised!”
“Right. Pancakes. I’m on it.” I tore my gaze away from Gabriel, grateful for the excuse to flee.
As I headed toward the stairs with Megan, I heard Gabriel mutter something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m going to kill him.”
Monday morning, I decided, was already a disaster.
And it wasn’t even eight AM yet.
