Chapter Fourteen
Cate
I’d done it.
One full week of keeping Megan alive, and miracles upon miracles, the kid was still breathing, still had all her limbs attached, and hadn’t acquired any additional broken bones.
Sure, there’d been some close calls. The incident with the scissors and the “art project” that nearly resulted in an impromptu haircut.
The time she’d decided to “help” with laundry and almost turned all of Gabriel’s dress shirts pink.
The moment I’d looked away for thirty seconds and found her attempting to climb onto the kitchen counter to reach the “special cookies” on the top shelf.
But she was alive. Intact. Unharmed.
I was basically a child-care prodigy.
Or incredibly lucky.
Probably the second one.
The week had been a careful dance of pretending everything was normal while actively avoiding thinking about the dinner. The candlelit, romantic-looking, completely-not-romantic dinner where I’d cooked my heart out and Gabriel had looked at me like—Nope!
Not thinking about it.
Not thinking about the way his voice had gone all low and rough when he’d said, “exceptionally good.”
Not thinking about the moment our fingers had touched when I’d handed him those plates and I felt like I’d been electrocuted.
Not thinking about how I’d basically fled his house like my hair was on fire.
Professional. I was being professional. He was my boss. I was his employee. The nanny. The person responsible for his daughter’s well-being, not the person who should be having increasingly detailed fantasies about—NOPE!
Moving on.
The point was: I’d survived the week. And now I had the weekend off, which meant I could escape to Boston, see some old friends, and pretend my life wasn’t a complete disaster held together by anxiety and prayer.
Boston.
The city where my dreams had died.
The city where Tracy had stolen my future.
The city I’d been avoiding for six months because every street corner reminded me of what I’d lost.
This was going to be great. Super fun. Definitely not emotionally devastating.
I stood on the train platform, second-guessing every life choice that had led me here. Maybe I should just go home. Curl up with some ice cream and watch cooking shows while crying into a pillow. That was a solid weekend plan.
But no, I’d promised Emma I’d meet her for coffee. Emma, who’d been my friend since culinary school, who’d actually kept in touch, who didn’t steal my job and my future and my—Deep breath.
I was fine.
Everything was fine.
The train pulled into South Station, and I stepped onto the platform, immediately hit by the familiar smell of the city—exhaust and coffee and that indefinable Boston smell that was somehow both nostalgic and nauseating.
I had made it three blocks toward the coffee shop when I heard someone call out behind me.
“Holy shit, is that Gabriel’s nanny?”
I froze.
Turned around and found myself face-to-face with Fitz—the colleague from Gabriel’s practice who’d been at the house that day. Next to him stood another guy, tall and lean with dark red hair and an easy smile. Both of them were wearing Red Sox jerseys.
“It is!” Fitz grinned, jogging over. “Cate, right? The nanny who broke Megan’s arm?”
“I didn’t—she broke her own—it was a skateboard,” I stammered, my face immediately heating. “Hi. Yes. That’s me. The arm-breaking nanny. Great reputation to have.”
Fitz laughed. “Relax, I’m kidding. Gabriel told us it wasn’t your fault. Well, eventually. After we stopped giving him shit about it.”
The other guy extended his hand. “Quinton. I work with Gabriel. And Fitz. We’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” My voice came out higher than intended. “What kind of things? Good things? Bad things? Things that will get me fired?”
“Mostly that you’re funny,” Quinton said. “And that you made Gabriel dinner last week.”
Oh God.
They knew about the dinner.
Of course they knew about the dinner.
Gabriel had probably told them, and they’d probably teased him mercilessly, and now they were looking at me like I was some kind of curiosity.
“It was just chicken,” I blurted. “Nothing fancy. Just an apology for the whole arm situation. Very professional. Completely professional.”
Fitz’s grin widened. “Uh-huh. That’s exactly what Gabriel said too. Very professional. With candles.”
I wanted to die.
Right there on the sidewalk.
Just cease to exist.
“The candles were Megan’s idea,” I said, which was true but somehow made it sound worse. “I was just cooking. Being a nanny. Doing nanny things.”
“Sure,” Quinton said, but he was smiling. Not mean—just amused. “Hey, we’re heading to the Red Sox game. You want to come?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Red Sox game,” Fitz repeated. “Fenway. We’ve got an extra ticket because Nathan bailed last minute. Do you like baseball?”
“I—I mean—I was supposed to meet a friend.”
“Bring them,” Quinton said. “Or ditch them. Come on, when’s the last time you did something fun?”
When was the last time I’d done something fun?
I couldn’t remember.
The last few months had been a blur of job applications and rejections and trying not to think about Tracy and that restaurant and everything I’d lost. And then the nanny job, which was less “fun” and more “constant low-level panic about keeping a child alive.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” I said.
“You’re not intruding,” Fitz said. “We’re inviting you. That’s literally the opposite of intruding.”
“Plus,” Quinton added, “it’ll be funny to tell Gabriel we hung out with his nanny.”
“Why would that be funny?”
They exchanged a look.
“No reason,” Fitz said, way too innocently.
I should have said no. Should have made an excuse, met Emma for coffee, stayed in my safe little bubble of anxiety and avoidance, but something about the way they were looking at me—friendly, genuine, like they actually wanted me there—made me hesitate.
And honestly? The idea of sitting in Fenway Park, eating overpriced hot dogs, and not thinking about Tracy or Gabriel or my failed culinary career sounded really, really good.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “Yeah. Let’s go to the game.”
Fitz pumped his fist. “Excellent. Fair warning: we’re very loud. And we will absolutely judge your baseball knowledge.”
“I know what a home run is,” I offered.
“That’s a start,” Quinton said, grinning.
Fenway Park was exactly as I remembered it—loud, crowded, smelling like beer and fried food and summer.
We’d gotten decent seats along the third base line, and I was currently working on my second hot dog while Fitz explained the intricacies of the Red Sox bullpen situation.
I understood maybe thirty percent of what he was saying, but I was nodding along anyway.
“You’re not listening,” he said.
“I’m totally listening. Bullpen. Very important. Much baseball.”
Quinton laughed. “She’s got the spirit. That’s what matters.”
The game was tied in the seventh inning, and I was surprised to find I was actually enjoying myself. The energy of the crowd, the crack of the bat, the way everyone around me seemed to collectively hold their breath when the ball was hit deep into the outfield.
It felt normal.
Like I was just a person at a baseball game, not a walking disaster who’d failed at her dream career and was now professionally responsible for not killing a five-year-old.
“So,” Fitz said during a pitching change, “how’s it going with Gabriel?”
I choked on my hot dog.
Quinton helpfully slapped me on the back while I coughed and tried to remember how to breathe.
“Fine,” I managed. “It’s fine. Very professional. He’s my boss. I’m the nanny. Everything is extremely normal and professional.”
“You said ‘professional’ three times,” Quinton observed.
“Because it’s very professional,” I said. “Did I mention it’s professional?”
Fitz was grinning again. “Gabriel’s been weird all week.”
“Weird how?”
“Distracted. Keeps spacing out during meetings. Yesterday he called a patient by the wrong name.”
“Gabriel never does that,” Quinton added. “Guy’s got a memory like a steel trap. But this week? Total space case.”
My stomach did a weird flip. “That’s probably just... work stress. Or something. Nothing to do with me.”
“Uh-huh.” Fitz didn’t look convinced. “And the fact that he mentioned you approximately fifteen times during our staff meeting last week?”
“He did not.”
“He absolutely did. ‘Cate made dinner.’ ‘Cate is good with Megan.’ ‘Cate is surprisingly competent despite the arm incident.’”
“That last one sounds exactly like something he’d say,” I muttered.
“The point is,” Quinton said, “he talks about you a lot. For someone who’s supposed to be all professional.”
I didn’t know what to do with that information.
Gabriel talked about me?
To his colleagues?
Multiple times?
“He’s probably just... updating you on the nanny situation,” I whispered weakly. “Making sure everyone knows Megan’s in good hands. Professional communication.”
“Sure,” Fitz drawled. “That’s definitely it.”
The game resumed, saving me from further interrogation. The Red Sox scored two runs in the eighth inning, and the crowd went wild. I found myself on my feet, cheering along with everyone else, caught up in the moment.
For a little while, I forgot about everything else.
Forgot about Tracy.
Forgot about the restaurant I’d never work in.
Forgot about the way Gabriel had looked at me across that candlelit table.
I was just... here. Present. Having fun.
It felt good. It felt normal. It felt like maybe, possibly, I wasn’t a complete disaster.
After the game, we ended up at a pub a few blocks from Fenway.
The kind of place with sticky floors and sports memorabilia covering every inch of wall space, and the best burgers in Boston.
I’d ordered the bacon cheeseburger—medium rare, extra pickles, and was currently experiencing what could only be described as religious ecstasy.
“This burger,” I said around a mouthful, “is incredible.”
“Told you.” Fitz smirked. “Best in the city.”