Chapter Twenty-Five
Cate
By ten AM, I’d stress-baked three dozen cookies, two loaves of banana bread, and what I was pretty sure was supposed to be a coffee cake but had somehow evolved into a crumb-topped anxiety attack.
The kitchen looked like a bakery had exploded.
A very specific bakery. One that specialized in “I’m spiraling about a custody case and if I don’t keep my hands busy, I’m going to google ‘what happens when you lose custody of a child you’re not even biologically related to but have somehow become emotionally devastated by the thought of losing. ’”
Which, for the record, I’d already googled at 3 AM while Gabriel slept beside me, one arm thrown across my waist like, even unconscious, he needed to keep me close. My search results had not been comforting.
“Cate?” Megan appeared in the doorway, still in her pajamas, hair sticking up in about seventeen different directions. “I smell cookies.”
“I know, sweetie. I couldn’t sleep.”
“You made cookies?”
“And banana bread. And... that.” I gestured vaguely at the crumb situation on the counter.
Megan climbed onto a stool, eyeing the spread with the kind of reverence usually reserved for Christmas morning. “Can I have one?”
“You can have three. But only if you promise to get dressed and come to the park with me.”
“The park?” Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Really. I need fresh air before I accidentally bake us into a carbohydrate coma.”
She giggled, already reaching for a chocolate chip cookie. “You’re weird.”
“I know.”
“I like it.”
Something in my chest squeezed. “I like you too, kiddo.”
Don’t think about losing her. Don’t think about Tonya taking her away.
“Cate?” Megan was looking at me with those big eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I forced a smile. “Just tired. Go get dressed, okay? Something comfortable for the playground.”
She bounced off the stool, cookie in hand, and disappeared upstairs.
I stared at the kitchen—at the evidence of my 3 AM panic baking session—and felt my chest tighten.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
You’re just married to your boss in a fake marriage that’s becoming real while his ex-wife and her shark lawyer husband try to take his daughter away and you’re being investigated by a biker attorney who looked at you like you were a particularly interesting legal puzzle and...
Breathe, Cate.
Just breathe.
I grabbed my phone and typed out a text to Gabriel.
Me: Taking Megan to the park. Left you enough baked goods to feed your entire clinic. Try not to judge me.
His response came thirty seconds later.
Gabriel: I never judge your stress-baking. It’s delicious. Be safe.
Then, a second one a moment later.
Gabriel: Miss you already.
My heart did something complicated.
This is so dangerous.
Falling for him is so, so dangerous because what happens when the custody case is over and we don’t need to be married anymore and—
“I’m ready!” Megan announced, reappearing in leggings and a T-shirt with a unicorn on it.
“Perfect. Let’s go before I start on muffins.”
The park was busy for a Thursday morning with moms pushing strollers, a few nannies with their charges, and some older kids who were apparently skipping school or on some kind of field trip.
Normal people doing normal things.
Not people in fake marriages trying to win custody battles against legal sharks.
Just act normal, Cate.
You can do normal.
You’ve been normal before. Probably. At some point in your life.
Megan made a beeline for the swings, and I settled onto a bench nearby, watching as she pumped her legs, going higher and higher.
She was laughing.
That pure, unselfconscious laugh that kids have before the world teaches them to be careful with their joy.
What if Tonya wins?
The thought hit me like a punch to the stomach.
What if Richard Castellano is as good as everyone says and he tears apart our marriage and proves it’s fake and the judge decides Megan should go live with Tonya and Richard in their probably perfect house with their probably perfect life and...
Stop it.
Stop spiraling.
Anthony Gallagher said we have a good case. He said Tonya abandoned Megan for three years.
But what if it wasn’t enough?
What if the judge looked at Gabriel, a single father, demanding job, long hours and then looked at Tonya who was remarried, stable, and claiming she’d “found herself” or whatever bullshit excuse she’d given for abandoning her daughter and decided Megan would be better off with her mother?
And what about me?
I’m not even her real stepmother. I’m a fake wife who’s been married for less than a week. I’m a nanny who got promoted to spouse in the world’s fastest relationship escalation. I’m a culinary school washout who stress-bakes at 3 AM and once broke a child’s arm with a skateboard.
Why would any judge think I’m a suitable parental figure?
“Cate! Watch this!” Megan called, and I looked up just in time to see her jump off the swing at the peak of its arc.
My heart stopped.
She landed perfectly, arms up like a gymnast, grinning, even with the cast still on her arm.
“Did you see?”
“I saw!” I called back, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “That was... very impressive. Maybe next time wait until the swing is a little lower?”
“But that’s not as fun!”
Of course it’s not.
Nothing safe is ever as fun.
Which is probably a metaphor for my entire life right now.
She ran toward the slide, and I watched her climb up, watched her slide down, watched her do it again and again with the kind of endless energy that only five-year-olds possess.
I love her.
The realization hit me with startling clarity.
I love this kid.
Not in a “she’s my boss’s daughter and I’m paid to care about her” way.
In a “if Tonya takes her away it’s going to break something in me that I didn’t even know could break” way.
Oh God.
Oh God, this is bad.
This is really, really bad.
Because I’m not supposed to be this attached. I’m supposed to be the nanny who became the fake wife who helps win the custody case, and then what?
What happens after?
Do we stay married? Do we get divorced? Do we— “Cate?”
I looked up.
Fitz was standing there in running gear, slightly sweaty, grinning down at me. He gestured to the bench. “Mind if I sit? I just finished five miles and I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Sure.”
He dropped onto the bench beside me, stretching his legs out. “So, Mrs. Lyon. How’s married life?”
“Complicated.”
“I bet.” He was quiet for a moment, watching Megan on the monkey bars. “She’s a good kid.”
“The best.”
“Gabriel’s a good dad.”
“I know.”
“So what’s with the face?”
I turned to look at him. “What face?”
“The face that says you’re spiraling about something you can’t control.” He smiled. “I’ve known Gabriel for fifteen years. I recognize the signs.”
Should I tell him?
Can I tell him?
Is this confidential? Is there attorney-client privilege for fake marriages?
“It’s the custody case,” I said finally. “Gabriel’s ex-wife is trying to get full custody of Megan.”
Fitz’s expression shifted. “Yeah, she’s always been a piece of work.”
“And she turned up with her new husband. Who happens to be a lawyer. A really good lawyer, apparently. The kind who wins ninety-two percent of his cases.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” I watched Megan clumisly swing from bar to bar, her tongue sticking out in concentration. “We hired this attorney, Anthony Gallagher, who’s supposed to be even better, but I just keep thinking about what happens if we lose. If the judge decides Megan should go live with Tonya. If...”
“Cate.” Fitz’s voice was gentle. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re hyperventilating.”
Am I?
Maybe.
Probably.
“It’s just…” I pressed my hands together, trying to organize my thoughts.
“It’s like we’re making this elaborate soufflé, right?
And soufflés are temperamental. One wrong move and the whole thing collapses.
And we’ve got all these ingredients—the marriage, the home stability, Gabriel’s career, my.
.. existence as a person who once broke a child’s arm—and we’re trying to make it rise perfectly.
But what if it doesn’t? What if we open the oven and it’s just..
. flat? What if Richard Castellano pokes it with his lawyer finger and the whole thing deflates and the judge takes one look at our sad, flat soufflé and says, ‘You know what? Tonya’s soufflé is way better. She can have the kid.’”
Fitz stared at me. “Did you just compare a custody case to a soufflé?”
“I stress-metaphor. It’s a thing.”
“That’s... actually kind of impressive.” He was trying not to laugh. “But also, Cate, you’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re absolutely spiraling.”
“Okay, fine, I’m spiraling.” I dropped my head into my hands.
“But can you blame me? This is Megan we’re talking about.
And I know I’ve only been in her life for a few weeks, but I—” My voice cracked.
“I can’t lose her, Fitz. I can’t watch Tonya take her away.
And I know that’s selfish because I’m not even her real mother, I’m just the nanny who accidentally became the wife, but—”
“Hey.” Fitz’s hand landed on my shoulder. “First of all, you’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re clearly important to both of them. I’ve never seen Gabriel like this. He’s happy, relaxed; he even smiles at work. That’s because of you.”
“Or because he’s getting regular sex.”
Fitz choked. “Jesus, Cate.”
“Sorry. Anxiety makes me inappropriate.”
“I’m noticing.” He was definitely laughing now. “But seriously. You’re good for them. Both of them. And any judge with half a brain is going to see that.”
“But what if the judge doesn’t have half a brain?
What if the judge is one of those people who thinks biological mothers are automatically better?
What if Tonya cries on the stand and talks about how she made mistakes, but she’s ‘changed’ and she ‘deserves a second chance’ and the judge buys it? What if—”
“Cate.”