Chapter Thirteen
Gabriel
This was a mistake.
I knew it the moment I walked through the door and saw the dining room transformed—candles flickering on the table, the smell of something incredible wafting from the kitchen, and Cate standing there looking nervous and proud and completely unaware of what she’d done.
She’d created a scene that looked like every fantasy I’d been trying not to have.
Candlelight. A home-cooked meal. The woman who’d been invading my thoughts for days was looking at me with those wide eyes, waiting for my reaction.
And Megan, thank God for Megan, bouncing between us with excitement about zesting lemons and being a sous chef, providing the only barrier between me and doing something catastrophically stupid.
“This looks incredible,” I said, and I meant it.
The chicken was plated like something from a high-end restaurant—golden and glistening with sauce, pasta twirled into a perfect nest, fresh herbs scattered artfully across the plate. Professional. Skilled. Another layer to Cate that I hadn’t expected.
Another reason to be fascinated by her.
Another reason this was dangerous.
“It’s just chicken,” Cate said, but I could hear the pride in her voice. “Nothing fancy.”
It was absolutely fancy.
And she knew it.
I pulled out her chair before I could think better of it, some ingrained instinct taking over. She looked up at me, startled, and I caught a hint of her scent—something light and floral that made my jaw tighten.
Professional.
This was professional.
My nanny had cooked dinner as an apology. A kind gesture. Nothing more.
The fact that it looked like a date was coincidental.
The fact that I’d grabbed her hand and asked her to stay was necessary. She’d cooked this meal. She should eat it.
Simple logic, right?
The fact that I wanted her to stay for entirely different reasons was irrelevant.
I sat down across from her, Megan between us at the head of the table, chattering about the cooking process. Safe. Appropriate. A family dinner with my daughter present.
Except it didn’t feel safe.
It felt like sitting on a powder keg.
“Try it, Dad!” Megan urged, already twirling pasta onto her fork.
I cut into the chicken. The knife slid through it like butter—perfectly cooked, tender, the kind of technique that took years to master.
I took a bite.
Fuck.
It was extraordinary. The sauce was bright with lemon but balanced with butter, the capers adding just enough brine, and the chicken itself seasoned perfectly.
Restaurant quality. Better than restaurant quality, because it was made here, in my kitchen, by the woman sitting across from me, looking anxious and hopeful.
“It’s excellent,” I said, and watched her face light up.
That expression. That genuine pleasure at my approval. It did something to me, sending heat pooling low in my gut.
I took another bite, trying to focus on the food, on the flavors, on anything except the way Cate looked in the candlelight.
“I told you it was good!” Megan said through a mouthful of pasta.
“Megan, chew first,” I said automatically.
Cate laughed—a soft, genuine sound that made my chest tighten. “She’s excited. I’d be excited too if I’d helped make something this good.”
“You did more than help,” I said. “This is professional level.”
“I went to culinary school.” She twirled pasta onto her fork, and I watched the movement of her hands.
Graceful. Confident. So different from her usual nervous energy.
“In Boston. I was supposed to work at this restaurant downtown, but...” She trailed off, something flickering across her face. “It didn’t work out.”
There was a story there. Pain, maybe. Disappointment. I wanted to ask, wanted to know everything about her, but Megan was already launching into another story about lemon zesting, and the moment passed.
Cate took a bite of the chicken.
And made a sound.
Not loud. Barely audible. Just a soft “mmm” of satisfaction as she closed her eyes, savoring the flavors.
My entire body went rigid.
It was innocent. Completely innocent. The natural response to good food. But my brain—my traitorous, single-minded brain—immediately translated that sound into something else entirely.
That’s what she’d sound like in bed!
The thought hit me like a physical blow. Sudden. Visceral. Completely inappropriate with my five-year-old daughter sitting three feet away.
I shifted in my chair, trying to ignore the way my body was responding.
Professional.
This was professional.
She was my employee. My nanny. The woman I’d hired to care for my daughter.
The woman who was currently taking another bite, her lips closing around the fork, and—Another soft sound.
Pleasure. Enjoyment.
Christ.
I was getting hard at the dinner table.
At a family dinner.
With my daughter present.
This was a new low, even for me.
“Dad, are you okay?” Megan asked. “You look weird.”
“Fine,” I managed, my voice rougher than intended. “Just tired. Long day.”
Cate glanced up at me, concern in her eyes. “You should eat more. You probably haven’t had a proper meal all day.”
She was right. I’d survived on coffee and whatever I could grab between patients. But eating required focus, and all my focus was currently occupied with not staring at her mouth.
At the way her tongue darted out to catch a drop of sauce on her lower lip.
At the way her throat moved when she swallowed.
At the way the candlelight cast shadows across her collarbones, visible above the neckline of her shirt.
I was losing my mind.
I forced myself to take another bite, to chew, to swallow, to participate in the conversation Megan was having about something.
I made appropriate responses. Asked follow-up questions.
Played the role of an attentive father, all while imagining what it would be like to clear this table with one sweep of my arm, lay Cate across it, and taste every inch of her skin.
To make her make those sounds again. Louder. More desperate.
To find out if she tasted as good as the meal she’d prepared.
The thought was so vivid, so consuming, that I had to grip my fork harder to ground myself. The metal bit into my palm.
Good.
Pain.
Focus.
“This sauce is amazing,” Cate said, taking another bite. “I think I got the balance right this time.”
This time. Meaning she’d made this before. Meaning she’d practiced, perfected, and spent hours in kitchens honing this skill. Another facet of her I hadn’t known about. Another reason to be intrigued.
Another reason I was completely fucked.
She licked her fork.
Just a quick swipe of her tongue to catch the last of the sauce.
Innocent.
Practical.
And my dick was so hard it hurt.
I reached for my water glass, drained half of it, and tried to think about anything else. Patient charts. Differential diagnoses. The complete anatomical structure of the cardiovascular system.
Anything except the way Cate’s lips looked in the candlelight.
Anything except the soft sounds she kept making.
Anything except the increasingly detailed fantasy playing out in my head of what I wanted to do to her on this table.
“Dad makes good food too,” Megan was saying, “but not like this. This is fancy restaurant food.”
“Your dad’s busy,” Cate said, smiling at my daughter. “He’s got more important things to do than spend hours in the kitchen.”
“Like what?” Megan asked.
“Like keeping people healthy. Saving lives. Being a brilliant doctor.”
The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. She meant it. She actually thought I was brilliant.
The realization sent another jolt of heat through me.
I wanted her.
Not just physically—though God knows the physical want was threatening to overwhelm me—but all of her.
Her chaos and her incompetence. Her anxiety and her skill.
Her terrible jokes and her genuine kindness.
I wanted to know why she’d left Boston. Why culinary school hadn’t worked out.
What had put that flash of pain in her eyes when she’d mentioned the restaurant?
I wanted to know what made her laugh. What made her nervous? What made her make those soft sounds of pleasure? I wanted her in my bed, in my life, in every way that was completely inappropriate given our professional relationship.
“Gabriel?”
I blinked. Cate was looking at me with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem distracted.”
Distracted?
That was one word for it.
Completely derailed by lust was more accurate.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just thinking about work.”
Liar.
I was thinking about the curve of her neck. The way her hair fell across her shoulders. The soft swell of her full breasts above the neckline of her shirt. The way her hands moved as she ate, graceful and sure.
I was thinking about how those hands would feel on my skin.
How her body would feel under mine.
How she’d sound when I made her come.
“You work too hard,” Cate said softly. “You should take better care of yourself.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me. She was worried about my well-being while I sat here having increasingly explicit thoughts about her.
While I struggled to maintain basic composure.
While my body betrayed every professional boundary I’d tried to maintain.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, and took another bite of chicken just to have something to do with my hands.
Because what I wanted to do with my hands was reach across this table and—No.
Stop.
Megan was here. My daughter. The reason I needed to maintain control, to be the responsible adult, to not act on any of these impulses.
“Can I have more pasta?” Megan asked.
“Of course, sweetie.” Cate stood to get the serving dish, and I made the mistake of watching her move. The way her hips swayed. The curve of her waist. The way her jeans fit.
I was going to hell.
Or I was going to do something stupid.
Possibly both.
She returned to the table, served Megan more pasta, and sat back down. Our eyes met across the candlelight, and something passed between us. Recognition, maybe. Awareness.
She felt it too.
The tension. The pull. The way the air seemed thicker, charged with something neither of us was acknowledging.
Her cheeks flushed pink. She looked away first, focusing on her plate.
Good. One of us needed to maintain sanity.
Because I was rapidly losing mine.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and careful control. I asked Megan about her day. Complimented the food again. Tried to act like a normal human being having a normal dinner.
All the while my body screamed for something I couldn’t have.
All the while my mind supplied increasingly detailed scenarios of what I wanted to do to the woman across from me.
All the while I sat there with an erection that showed no signs of fading, trapped at this table by propriety and my daughter’s presence.
This was torture.
Exquisite, agonizing torture.
And when Cate took her last bite, closing her eyes and making that soft sound of satisfaction one more time, I knew I was in serious trouble.
Because I wanted to be the one making her sound like that.
I wanted to be the reason she closed her eyes in pleasure.
I wanted to taste her the way she’d tasted this meal—slowly, thoroughly, savoring every moment.
“That was so good,” Megan declared, pushing back from the table. “Can Cate cook dinner every night, Daddy?”
“That’s not part of her job description,” I said, my voice strained.
“But she’s better than you!”
“She is.” I looked at Cate and saw the pleased flush on her cheeks. “Exceptionally good.”
The words came out lower than intended. More intimate.
Her eyes widened slightly. She’d heard the subtext.
Good.
Let her know what she was doing to me.
Let her feel even a fraction of this want that was consuming me.
“I should help clean up,” she said, standing quickly. Too quickly. Nervous.
“You cooked. I’ll clean.” I stood as well, grateful for the excuse to move, to put distance between us before I did something irreversible.
Like pulling her against me.
Like finding out if she tasted as good as I imagined.
Like forgetting every reason why this was a terrible idea.
“Megan, go get ready for bed,” I said. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“But—”
“Now, please.”
Something in my tone must have conveyed urgency, because she went without further argument.
Leaving me alone with Cate in the candlelit dining room.
The air felt heavier. Thicker.
Dangerous.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said, my voice rough. “It was extraordinary.”
“You’re welcome.” She was gathering plates, not looking at me. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I did.” I moved closer and took the plates from her hands. Our fingers brushed.
Electricity.
She gasped softly—barely audible, but I heard it.
Felt it.
Knew she was as affected as I was.
“Gabriel—”
“You should go,” I said, cutting her off. Because if she stayed, if we kept standing here in the candlelight with that sound still echoing in my ears, I was going to do something we’d both regret.
Or something we wouldn’t regret at all.
Which was worse.
She nodded, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door.
I watched her go, every muscle in my body tense with want.
The door closed behind her.
I stood alone in my dining room, surrounded by the remnants of the best meal I’d had in years, hard and aching and completely undone. By my nanny. By a woman I couldn’t have. By someone who’d somehow managed to crack every defense I’d built.
I looked at the table. The candles. The empty plates, and I imagined, just for a moment, what it would have been like if Megan hadn’t been here. If I’d been free to act on every impulse. If I’d laid Cate across this table and made her mine.
The fantasy was so vivid I could almost taste it.
Almost feel it.
Almost believed it was possible.
But it wasn’t.
She was my employee. My daughter’s nanny. Off-limits in every way that mattered.
I blew out the candles, gathered the dishes, and tried to ignore the way my hands shook. This was going to be a very long night. And an even longer week. Because now I knew what she could do in a kitchen.
Now I’d heard those sounds. Now I’d seen that look in her eyes, and there was no going back from that. No pretending I didn’t want her. No maintaining the professional distance I’d tried so hard to keep.
She’d cooked me dinner, and I wanted to devour her.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Neither was the impossibility of the situation.
But as I stood in my kitchen, loading the dishwasher, still hard and aching and completely wrecked, I knew one thing for certain: Something had shifted tonight. Something fundamental and I had no idea how to put it back.