Chapter Ten
Cate
He was back.
My faceless ninja, butter knife gleaming in the moonlight, ready to strike. But something was different this time. Very different.
He wasn’t wearing his usual black tactical gear.
He wasn’t wearing anything at all.
And he was dancing.
Not just dancing—gyrating. To ABBA. Specifically “Dancing Queen,” which was blasting from somewhere in my subconscious at a volume that should have been illegal.
The ninja spun in a circle, his bare ass catching the dream-moonlight, a white towel clutched in one hand that he waved above his head like he was at a particularly enthusiastic sporting event.
“You can dance!” dream-ninja sang, his voice somehow both menacing and melodic. “You can jive!”
He did a body roll that would have made a Chippendale dancer weep with envy.
“Having the time of your life!”
The towel twirled. His hips swiveled. And then—oh God, then—he turned around, and suddenly the faceless ninja had a face.
Gabriel’s face.
Gabriel’s very attractive, very naked face and body, dancing toward me with the kind of confidence that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying my mortification immensely.
“See that girl!” he sang, pointing the butter knife at me. “Watch that scene!”
I woke up screaming.
Not a cute little gasp-awake. A full-throated, horror-movie-victim scream that probably woke up half the neighborhood and definitely woke up my mom, who came bursting into my room as if the house were on fire.
“What? What is it? Are you okay?”
I sat bolt upright in bed, sweating, my heart racing as if I’d just run a marathon. “He was naked. Dancing. To ABBA.”
My mom blinked. “What?”
“The ninja. My dream ninja. He was—” I gestured wildly. “He was naked and dancing to ‘Dancing Queen’ and waving a towel and then he turned around and he was—” I couldn’t even say it.
Understanding dawned on my mom’s face. “Oh, honey.”
“Don’t ‘oh, honey’ me! My subconscious has officially merged my recurring anxiety dream with the towel incident and now I have to go to work today and look him in the eye and pretend I didn’t just dream about him naked and dancing and—” I grabbed my pillow and screamed into it.
My mom sat on the edge of my bed, rubbing my back. “It’s just a dream, sweetheart.”
“It’s a sign,” I said, my voice muffled by the pillow. “A sign that I’ve completely lost my mind and should probably move to a remote island where I never have to face another human being again.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’M BEING REALISTIC.”
She pulled the pillow away from my face. “Cate. Listen to me. You’re going to go to work. You’re going to be professional. You’re going to take care of Megan. And you’re going to survive this.”
“What if I can’t look at him without thinking about the towel?”
“Then you look at his forehead.”
“What if I can’t look at his forehead without thinking about what’s below the forehead?”
“Then you look at Megan.”
I groaned and flopped back onto my bed. “This is a disaster.”
“This is life,” my mom said, standing up. “Now get in the shower. You have work in an hour.”
An hour.
Sixty minutes.
Three thousand six hundred seconds until I had to face the man I’d seen in a towel, fled from in terror, and then apparently dreamed about naked and dancing.
I was going to die. This was it. This was how Cate Brennan’s story ended. Not with a bang, but with a mortifying whimper in a suburban driveway.
I dragged myself into the shower, where I spent twenty minutes rehearsing what I’d say.
“Good morning, Dr. Lyon. How was your weekend?” Too casual.
“Hello. I’m here to work. Let’s never speak of Saturday.” Too aggressive.
“Hi. I’m sorry about the towel thing. And also sorry for existing.” Too pathetic.
By the time I got out, I’d settled on: “Good morning,” followed by immediate eye contact with literally anything that wasn’t him.
I got dressed in record time—jeans, a sweater that said, “I’m trying but also I’ve given up,” and my most professional sneakers (the ones without visible stains). I checked my phone.
Mom: You’ve got this, honey. Just breathe.
I typed back.
Me: Crisis mode. Will debrief later. Send thoughts and prayers.
Mom: Sending thoughts. Prayers. And don’t forget to look at his forehead!
Not helpful.
I grabbed my bag, checked my reflection one more time (acceptable, if you ignored the panic in my eyes), and headed next door.
The trek to Gabriel’s house felt like walking to my own execution. Every leaf was a stay of execution. Every gust of wind was a countdown to doom. I considered turning around approximately forty-seven times.
But I didn’t.
Because I needed this job.
Because Megan needed consistency.
Because I wasn’t a coward.
I am absolutely a coward, but I’m a coward with bills to pay.
I hoped the fence onto his driveway at exactly 7:58 AM. Two minutes early. Professional. Composed. Definitely not having an internal meltdown.
I stood there, staring at the front door.
The same front door where, forty-eight hours ago, I’d encountered Towel Gabriel and promptly lost all higher brain function.
I could do this. I was an adult. A professional. A woman who could absolutely look her attractive, half-naked—NO. Stop.
Professional thoughts only.
I took a step.
Then another.
Stood in front of the door.
Raised my hand to knock.
And froze.
What if he answered in a towel again? What if this was just his thing? What if I’d accidentally stumbled into some kind of towel-based Groundhog Day situation where every time I knocked on this door, Gabriel appeared increasingly undressed?
Stop it, Cate. Just knock.
I knocked.
Three professional, confident knocks that definitely didn’t sound like the frantic tapping of someone having a nervous breakdown.
Footsteps approached from inside.
The doorknob turned.
I held my breath.
Please be fully clothed.
Please be fully clothed.
Please be—the door opened.
Not Gabriel.
Definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not Gabriel.
I stood there, blinking like a malfunctioning robot, my brain making the sound of a dial-up modem trying to connect to the internet circa 1997.
The man in the doorway was tall. Not quite Gabriel-tall, but close—with dark hair styled in that effortlessly tousled way that probably took forty-five minutes and three different products to achieve.
He had the kind of face that belonged on a cologne advertisement, all sharp jawline and perfect teeth and eyes that were currently traveling a very leisurely journey from my sneakers to my face.
And he was grinning.
Not just grinning—grinning. The kind of grin that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he was and had built his entire personality around that knowledge.
He licked his lips.
He actually, genuinely, no-I’m-not-imagining-this, licked his lips while looking at me.
My brain, which had spent the last hour preparing seventeen different versions of “Good morning, Dr. Lyon,” promptly blue-screened.
“Well, hello there,” the stranger said, his voice smooth as British butter and twice as rich. He leaned against the doorframe in a way that suggested he’d practiced the move in a mirror. Multiple times. “You must be Cate.”
I blinked again. “I... yes. I’m... who are you?”
“Fitz.” He extended his hand, still grinning like he’d just won the lottery and I was the prize. “Gabriel’s colleague.”
I shook his hand on autopilot, my brain still trying to catch up with this unexpected plot twist.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I prepared for Gabriel. I mentally rehearsed for Gabriel. I had spent an hour in the shower practicing how to look Gabriel in the eye without thinking about towels or naked ABBA-dancing ninjas or the way his chest had looked in the moonlight—Focus, Cate.
“I... is Dr. Lyon here?” I managed, pulling my hand back before Fitz could do something weird, like kiss it. He looked like the type who might kiss hands.
“Gabriel? Oh, he’s upstairs. Emergency call from the hospital.” Fitz’s grin somehow widened, which I hadn’t thought was physically possible. “He asked me to let you in. Said something about Megan needing breakfast.”
Right. Megan. My actual job. The reason I was here.
Not to have a mental breakdown about towels.
Not to be visually devoured by a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a CW show about attractive doctors who were also secretly vampires.
“Oh. Okay. Great. I’ll just—” I gestured vaguely toward the interior of the house.
Fitz stepped aside, but not very far aside. I had to squeeze past him, and I swear he angled himself so I’d have to brush against him. The man had the spatial awareness of a golden retriever who wanted attention, except golden retrievers were cute and this was just... uncomfortable.
“You know,” Fitz said as I entered, “Gabriel didn’t mention how pretty you were.”
My brain made a sound like a record scratch.
Pretty? Me? The woman who’d shown up to her job interview late, sweaty, and covered in skateboard-related guilt?
The woman who’d fled from a man in a towel while babbling about “towel situations”?
The woman who’d just spent the entire drive here having an anxiety spiral about ABBA and butter knives?
“I... thank you?” It came out like a question, because honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or the opening line of a horror movie.
Fitz closed the door behind me, still grinning. “He said you were good with Megan. Didn’t mention the rest.”
The rest? What rest? What was happening? Why was this man talking to me like we were in a rom-com and he was the charming love interest, when I was very clearly the disaster protagonist who was supposed to be pining after the grumpy main character who’d answered the door in a towel?
This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t part of the plan.
I’d prepared for Gabriel’s awkwardness, not... whatever this was.
“I should—” I pointed toward the stairs. “Megan. Breakfast. Job.”
Wow. Eloquent, Cate. Really selling that college education.
“Of course.” Fitz’s eyes sparkled with amusement, as if he could see every single chaotic thought ricocheting around my skull and found it entertaining. “Don’t let me keep you. Though if you ever want to grab coffee sometime.”
“CATE!”
Megan’s voice echoed from upstairs, and I’d never been so grateful to hear a child yelling in my entire life.
“Coming!” I called back, already moving toward the stairs like they were a life raft and I was drowning in a sea of unwanted flirtation.
Fitz chuckled behind me. “See you around, Cate.”
I practically ran up the stairs.
What... the hell... just happened?
I’d spent an hour preparing to face Gabriel.
Gabriel, who I’d seen in a towel. Gabriel, who I’d dreamed about naked and dancing.
Gabriel, who made my brain short-circuit just by existing, and instead I’d been ambushed by his colleague who looked like he’d walked off the set of a medical drama and decided to audition for the role of “Guy Who Makes Everything Weird.”
I reached the top of the stairs, my heart pounding, my thoughts a tangled mess of confusion and residual panic.
Megan poked her head out of her room. “You’re here!”
“What? Why wouldn’t I—” I stopped myself.
Focus. Professional.
“I work here, remember?”
“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.