Chapter Twelve #2
“Kind of. I needed a change of scenery. And I like kids.” I heated olive oil in a large skillet, waiting for it to shimmer. “Plus, your dad pays better than most restaurants.”
That was true, actually. Dr. Lyon’s salary offer had been generous—probably because he’d gone through so many nannies that he’d had to start offering combat pay.
“Do you miss it? Cooking?”
I slid the first chicken breast into the hot oil, listening to the satisfying sizzle. “Sometimes. But I still get to cook. Just not in a restaurant.”
“You should cook for us more often. Dad usually just makes boring stuff.”
“Your dad’s busy. He’s got a lot on his plate.” I flipped the chicken; the bottom was perfectly golden brown. “Besides, I bet his boring stuff is still pretty good.”
“It’s okay.” Megan finished zesting the lemon and held it up proudly. “Is this enough?”
“Perfect. You’re a natural sous chef.”
She beamed.
I transferred the cooked chicken to a plate and started on the sauce, my hands moving through the familiar motions without conscious thought.
Shallots into the pan, let them soften. Garlic, just until fragrant.
Deglaze with white wine, scraping up all those beautiful brown bits. Lemon juice, capers, butter to finish.
This was the part I loved. The alchemy of it. The way simple ingredients transformed into something greater than the sum of their parts. The way a good pan sauce could elevate a basic chicken breast into something worth remembering.
The way cooking made me feel competent and capable and like maybe I wasn’t a complete disaster after all.
“It smells really good,” Megan said, watching me work.
“Wait until you taste it.”
I let the sauce reduce, tasting and adjusting. More lemon. A pinch of salt. Fresh cracked pepper. The butter emulsified into the wine and lemon juice, creating a glossy, silky sauce that caught the light.
Beautiful.
I returned the chicken to the pan, spooning sauce over the top, letting it warm through while I started the pasta water.
“Can I help with anything else?” Megan asked.
“You can set the table. Plates, forks, knives, napkins. Make it fancy.”
“Fancy how?”
“However you want. It’s your table.”
She slid off the stool carefully, mindful of her cast, and headed for the dining room with the kind of serious concentration that suggested this was an important mission.
I was alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the smells of garlic and lemon and butter, and for the first time in months, I felt like myself.
Not the anxious mess who’d shown up late to her first day. Not the disaster who’d let a kid break her arm. Not the idiot who’d said, “towel situation,” and then fled like a spooked cat.
Just Cate. The one who could cook. The one who’d spent four years learning technique and theory and the precise temperature at which butter browns. The one who’d dreamed of running her own kitchen someday.
The one Tracy had beaten.
I pushed the thought away, focusing on the pasta.
Fresh fettuccine only needed three minutes in boiling water.
Once ready, I’d toss it with butter and parsley, letting it soak up some of that pan sauce.
Simple. Classic. The kind of dish that looked effortless but required perfect timing and technique.
The kind of dish that would make Dr. Lyon forget I was the nanny who’d broken his daughter’s arm.
Or at least, that was the plan.
I plated everything carefully—chicken fanned on the plate, pasta twirled into a neat nest, sauce drizzled artfully over the top, and fresh parsley for garnish. It looked like something from a restaurant. My restaurant. The one I’d never gotten to work in.
Stop it, Cate. This isn’t about Tracy. This isn’t about Boston. This is about apologizing to your boss and keeping your job and definitely not thinking about how his eyes looked this morning when he said “Good morning” in that low, rough voice that had made my stomach flip.
Definitely not thinking about that.
“Wow,” Megan breathed, appearing in the doorway. “That looks like restaurant food.”
“That’s the idea.” I wiped down the counter, put away the ingredients, and loaded the dishwasher. Professional. Competent. Not at all like someone who regularly caused chaos.
“Dad’s going to love it.”
“I hope so.” I checked my phone. Five forty-five. Dr. Lyon would be home soon. “How’s the table looking?”
“Come see!”
I followed her into the dining room and stopped short.
Megan had gone all out. The table was set with actual cloth napkins. Where the hell did she find those? The plates arranged just so, and—oh God—she’d found candles.
“Megan, sweetie, this looks amazing, but maybe we should skip the candles? I don’t want your dad to think—”
To think what? That I was trying to seduce him with chicken piccata and candlelight?
Because I absolutely was not doing that.
This was an apology dinner.
A professional gesture.
Nothing romantic about it.
Even if the candles did make it look kind of... intimate.
“But it looks fancy!” Megan protested.
“It does look fancy. It looks very fancy. Maybe too fancy?”
“You said to make it fancy!”
She had me there.
“Okay, you’re right. Candles are fine. Totally normal. People have candles at dinner all the time.” I was definitely overthinking this. “It looks perfect.”
Megan grinned, clearly proud of herself.
I heard a car in the driveway.
Oh God. He was home.
Dr. Lyon was home, and I’d cooked him dinner, and there were candles on the table, and this was either going to be a nice gesture or the most awkward moment of my entire employment.
Possibly both.
“He’s here!” Megan bounced toward the front door.
I stood in the dining room, suddenly aware of how this looked. The fancy table. The candlelight. The home-cooked meal that had taken actual skill and effort.
This was fine. This was a normal thing for a nanny to do. Cooking dinner was literally part of childcare. The fact that I’d made it restaurant-quality was just... professionalism. Attention to detail. Definitely not me trying to impress my absurdly attractive boss.
I heard the front door open. Heard Megan’s excited voice: “Dad! Cate made dinner! Real dinner! With fancy chicken!”
Heard Dr. Lyon’s deeper voice, surprised: “She did?”
And then footsteps, coming toward the dining room.
I smoothed down my shirt, tried to look casual, and prepared to explain why I’d turned his Monday night dinner into what looked suspiciously like a date.
This was fine.
Everything was fine.
I was a professional nanny who’d made a professional apology dinner with professional candlelight.
Nothing weird about that at all.
The footsteps stopped in the doorway.
I looked up.
Dr. Lyon stood there in his work clothes, looking tired and rumpled and unfairly attractive. His eyes moved from the set table to the candles to me, and something flickered across his face that I couldn’t quite read.
“Hi,” I said, my voice coming out slightly higher than normal. “I made dinner. As an apology. For the arm thing. Not that dinner fixes a broken arm, obviously, but I thought—I mean, I wanted to—”
Stop talking, Cate.
“It smells incredible,” he said, and was that surprise in his voice? Or something else?
“It’s chicken piccata. And fresh pasta. Nothing fancy. Well, kind of fancy. But not too fancy. Just regular fancy. Normal fancy.” Oh God, I was doing it again. “Megan helped.”
“I zested the lemon!” Megan announced proudly.
Dr. Lyon’s expression softened as he looked at his daughter. Then his gaze returned to me, and I felt that familiar flutter in my stomach. The one that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with the way he was looking at me right now.
Like I’d surprised him.
Like maybe I wasn’t what he’d expected.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
“I know. I wanted to.” I gestured toward the table, trying to look professional and not at all like someone who’d spent the last hour overthinking every detail. “You should eat before it gets cold. I need to head home anyway. Sorry about the arm thing again.”
He nodded slowly, still watching me with that unreadable expression as I gathered my things, only for Megan to cry out, “Stay.”
I blinked a few times. “What?”
Megan’s eyes were wide and hopeful as she looked from her father to me, her fingers gripping the back of her chair.
I hesitated, torn between the urge to flee and the warmth radiating from the little family gathered in front of me.
The table was set for three, not two, and the extra plate gleamed expectantly in the candlelight.
Dr. Lyon gave a small, encouraging nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something almost like a smile.
It was impossible not to feel drawn in by the moment, by the possibility of belonging—just for tonight.
I slowly slipped my bag from my shoulder, setting it quietly on the floor, letting myself be a part of their world for a little while longer.
“You cooked this fabulous meal. You should stay and eat it.”
And as I moved toward the table—Megan chattering excitedly, Dr. Lyon pulling out chairs, the candles casting soft light across the room—I realized that maybe, just maybe, I’d made a terrible mistake.
Because this didn’t feel like an apology dinner.
This felt like something else entirely.
And judging by the way Dr. Lyon’s eyes kept finding mine across the table, he noticed too.