Chapter Six
Cate
He was back.
My masked, shirtless, butter-knife-wielding ninja. This time, just for extra flair, he was roaring down the street on a motorcycle, looking like Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy wielding a kitchen utensil drawer.
Yeah, don’t ask me what that meant.
My subconscious clearly missed the memo about subtlety.
The distant roar of an engine faded as I blinked awake, reality seeping in with the dull ache of morning. Groaning, I peeked my head out from under my pillow and wanted to cry.
Yep, I was still in my childhood bedroom.
“Gah!” I groaned, flopping onto my back, squinting at a ceiling that frankly owed me an apology for bearing witness to my misery. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”
Great.
That meant another glorious day of babysitting chaos, drama, and—if my intuition was correct—the likelihood of seeing New Haven’s finest fire department traipse through Dr. Lyon’s living room.
Not that I was complaining, mind you.
If anything, chaos kept things interesting.
And who wanted boring anyway?
Besides... firefighters? Yummy with a capital Y.
Sure, my heart was mostly spoken for by my mysterious masked ninja, but let’s be real... any God-fearing woman would never say no to a discreet, or not-so-discreet peek at a smokin’ hot firefighter in action.
Purely for safety reasons, of course.
I sighed and rolled over, letting my gaze drift between the familiar posters on my walls and the soft light leaking through the blinds. For a brief second, I debated whether hiding under the covers until noon would count as an act of self-care or just plain cowardice.
Don’t get me wrong. I genuinely didn’t mind spending my days wrangling Megan, the irrepressible five-year-old tornado and daughter of my boss, Dr. Lyon.
Watching her test the laws of physics and occasionally the limits of my sanity while her father saved lives at the hospital had to be worth the battle scars I would no doubt soon receive, right?
But I wasn’t entirely sure how Dr. Lyon would react to another day full of Megan’s patented “adventures,” especially after what happened yesterday.
With a dramatic sigh worthy of a daytime soap opera, I flung the covers off and rolled sideways, contorting like a circus performer to rescue my battered cellphone from the nightstand.
As I surveyed my room—a cardboard city of unpacked boxes that should’ve been gathering dust in my luxurious, fantasy-apartment in Boston by now—I marveled at my adaptability.
Or maybe it was just my uncanny knack for turning “plans” into “interesting stories for future therapy sessions.”
Those boxes were supposed to mark the start of my bright new future.
You know, the one where I was climbing the career ladder at that prestigious job in Boston.
The job my ex-best friend... yes, the very one who taught me that trust falls were strictly for team-building retreats and not for life, swiped right out from under me.
Classic.
But hey, water under the burned bridge, right?
I was determined to rise above, even if Karma was taking her sweet time mixing up that cosmic pie of paybacks, which were a bitch. Admittedly, I hoped she’d serve my ex-BFF a heaping slice with extra whipped cream just for laughs.
Limbering up for a day of glorified child-wrangling, I stretched and thumbed open Facebook, bracing myself for the usual barrage of engagement rings, cat memes, and “motivational” quotes from people with suspiciously perfect lives.
I was ready for anything.
Or so I thought.
Then, as if choreographed by the universe’s cruelest comedy writer, my eyes practically launched from my skull.
I shot upright, phone gripped like a lifeline.
There it was: a post from the ex-best friend herself.
My former confidante, now officially the Benedict Arnold of baked goods, announcing to the entire world, and, more importantly to me, that she had just been promoted to. .. Sous Chef!
“Oh, the BETRAYAL!” I wailed.
After seeing my ex-best friend’s triumphant, cake-filled promotion post, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d need an alibi before noon.
No matter how many times I tried to laugh it off, I could practically hear my mother insisting that “everything happens for a reason,” but what I really wanted was a reason that didn’t include police, firefighters, and the possibility of thirty-years to life.
Maybe my melodramatic overthinking was getting the best of me, but my brain refused to let this sitcom-worthy disaster go quietly.
Nope.
Not in my wheelhouse!
Jumping out of my bed, I quickly showered and dressed, my mind conjuring evil thoughts of rebellion, revenge, and wondering if I could swing by and get a burger before I needed to head next door.
Gawd, I needed a fat juicy burger in the worst way.
Grabbing my backpack, I thundered down the stairs, my footsteps echoing with purpose, and a touch of desperation.
The aroma of fresh coffee drifted through the hall, but it wasn’t enough to distract me from my mission.
As I reached the kitchen, I found my parents already seated at the table.
My father sat engrossed in his morning newspaper, barely glancing up at my dramatic entrance, while my mother greeted me with a warm, knowing smile that seemed to say she was ready for whatever mood I brought to the table.
“Good morning, Cate.”
With a disgruntled huff, I grumbled in reply, “For you, maybe.” The words barely escaped my lips, muffled by the growing weight of the morning’s drama.
My mom’s expression softened with understanding as she ventured, “I take it you saw Tracy’s post.” Her tone was gentle but laced with the kind of motherly intuition that made it impossible to hide anything from her.
Unable to contain my exasperation, I collapsed into the nearest chair, flinging myself forward until my forehead met the table. With a melodramatic wail that would rival any tear-jerking scene at the Oscars, I cried out, “WHY!”
“Darling,” my mom tried to talk reason. “Your time will come.”
“When Mom?” I whined as I banged my head on the table. “I wanted that job!”
“And there will be one better soon. I know it.”
Huffing, I looked at my mom. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I am.” My mom smirked with that annoying I-just-know-these-things smile. “In the meantime, you have something to keep you busy.”
Rolling my eyes, I stood reaching for a banana.
“And on that note, I better get going.” I peeled the banana absentmindedly, its sweet scent rising up to greet me, but even comfort food couldn’t dissolve the knot of disappointment in my chest. Glancing once more at my mom, I tried to muster a smile, though it wavered at the edges.
At least I thought the day couldn’t get much worse.
.. unless Tracy decided to post another update.
I should have known better than to challenge Karma.
Every time I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, the infuriating woman seemed to take it personally.
It was as if the cranky bitch looked at me, grinned mischievously, and said, “Hold my beer”—because a few hours later, I learned how much worse it could get.
“MEGAN!” Dr. Lyon’s familiar baritone boomed through the sterile chaos of the New Haven Emergency Room, his entrance as dramatic as a Shakespearean soliloquy. I winced, mentally preparing for impact.
My primary concern? Would he focus on the fact his darling daughter had a freshly snapped radius, or the minor miracle that I, her designated babysitter, had actually managed to keep her alive for more than five minutes?
Megan, bless her little thrill-seeking heart, seemed utterly unbothered by my impending professional doom.
She was practically vibrating with glee.
This kid was clearly an ER VIP; her frequent flyer miles to the Intensive Care Unit probably rivaled a seasoned airline executive’s.
The entire staff, from the stoic surgeons to the perpetually caffeinated nurses, knew her.
They cooed at her, pressing colorful bandages and sugary lollipops into her uninjured hand like she was the queen of some bizarre hospital pageant.
Just as I was attempting to regain a sliver of composure, my phone buzzed with the righteous fury of a thousand social media notifications.
Tracy.
Of course.
Dread, a familiar companion these days, coiled in my stomach.
I flipped the phone over, the screen glaring back with its insidious promise of more public humiliation.
I didn’t even have the energy to open it.
“Oh, for the love of all that is holy,” I muttered, tossing the offending device onto the nearby table.
I was half-tempted to launch it out the nearest window when the curtain whooshed back, revealing Dr. Lyon in all his imposing, dagger-glaring glory.
I scrambled to my feet, a desperate, “In my defense,” escaping my lips before his hand, impossibly large and impossibly firm, shot out, silencing me mid-sentence.
Honestly, the audacity!
“Baby, are you okay?” he asked, his voice softening as he moved toward Megan. She beamed up at him, her broken arm held aloft like a trophy. “Look, Daddy, I got a pink one!” she chirped, proudly displaying her bright pink cast.
“I see that,” he said, a grin spreading across his face as he leaned down to kiss her forehead.
Then, his gaze swiveled to me.
The grin vanished, replaced by a narrow-eyed intensity that could curdle milk. He strode over, his hand clamping around my arm like a vise, and towed me out of earshot.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.
“Oh, now you want to know?” I shot back, my voice laced with a healthy dose of exasperation.
He just growled again. And I had to admit, even in my current state of professional jeopardy, it was... oddly compelling. My brain did a little dizzying pirouette, trying to suppress any girlish fluttering.
When he stepped closer, my eyes widened involuntarily.
Damn. I’d never noticed the flecks of gold in his impossibly blue eyes. They were practically molten.
“Cate?” he growled, the single word jolting me back to reality. My inner fan club abruptly shut down.
“Right,” I sputtered, my voice cracking slightly.
“So, Megan wanted to learn to surf. And naturally, since she didn’t have a surfboard handy, I thought, ‘What’s the closest thing to a surfboard?
’ Naturally, a skateboard. They’re basically the same, right?
Just... one has wheels.” I paused, taking a shaky breath. “She was doing great, really.”
“Apparently not,” he stated flatly, his eyes still fixed on me with the intensity of a hawk spotting a particularly foolish mouse. “’Cause she broke her arm.”
“Yeah,” I conceded, my gaze drifting to Megan, who was now happily decorating her cast with a sparkly marker. “That was... a bit of a snag in the plan.”
“A skateboard?” Dr. Lyon’s voice was a low growl, a sound that promised imminent dismemberment.
He loomed close to me, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawn into a thunderous arch that could rival any storm cloud.
The gold flecks in his blue eyes, which moments ago had held a spark of something almost human, were now shards of arctic ice.
And dear gawd almighty, he smelled delicious.
Is that chocolate and cinnamon?
“You thought a skateboard was the closest thing to a surfboard?”
Lightly shaking my head, I groaned internally.
In my defense, the surfboard rental shop was closed, and Megan had begged for something “cool” to ride.
Improvisation felt like my only option; I’d just wanted to make her happy, not send her to the ER.
As I watched Megan hum, blissfully unaware, my mind raced through possible excuses.
None of which seemed remotely convincing under Dr. Lyon’s icy glare.
Oh, right, the possibility of my professional demise was looking more like an inevitability.
I swallowed; the dry air of the emergency room suddenly felt thick enough to choke on. “They’re both boards,” I squeaked, my voice barely a whisper. “And they both... glide?”
The logic, even to my own ears, was as flimsy as a well-worn tissue. But I was desperate, clinging to the flotsam of a terrible decision like a shipwrecked sailor to a piece of driftwood.
Megan, meanwhile, oblivious to the impending doom I was facing, continued to enthusiastically decorate her pink cast, humming a cheerful, off-key tune. The jarring contrast between her happiness and the volcanic eruption building in her father’s gaze only made me feel more exposed.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that spoke volumes of his exhaustion and profound disappointment.
“Cate,” he sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of his profession and the sheer absurdity of my explanation.
“We need to have a conversation about risk assessment. And possibly about the fundamental principles of physics.” He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.
“When we get home, you and I are going to have a very long, very uncomfortable talk about your suitability as a nanny.”
My stomach plummeted.
This was it.
Fired. And probably blacklisted from childcare for the rest of eternity.