Chapter Twenty-Three
Cate
Forty-seven hours.
That was how long it had been since Gabriel told his ex-wife I was his wife.
Forty-seven hours since I agreed to actually marry him.
And now I was standing in his driveway.
Our driveway, oh my God—watching my dad haul boxes across the yard while Fitz made inappropriate jokes about “consummating the marriage” and my mother kept asking if I was “absolutely sure about this, darling.”
Sure?
SURE?
Mom, I haven’t been sure about anything since I woke up yesterday morning as Cate Brennan and went to sleep as Cate Lyon.
Mrs. Gabriel Lyon.
Mrs. Dr. Gabriel Lyon.
“Cate?” My mom’s voice cut through my spiral. “Sweetheart, where do you want these kitchen boxes?”
I blinked. Stared at the box in her hands labeled “KITCHEN - RANDOM UTENSILS & ANXIETY.”
Right. Because I’d labeled my boxes while having a panic attack at 2 AM.
Very professional. Very ‘stable person who should definitely get married in less than two days.’
“Um,” I said intelligently. “Kitchen?”
My mom’s expression suggested she was reconsidering her entire approach to parenting.
“The kitchen,” she repeated slowly. “Where in the kitchen?”
How should I know? This isn’t my house. This is Gabriel’s house. I’m just... living here now. Because we got MARRIED!
“Wherever there’s space?” I tried.
“Cate.” My dad appeared beside me, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You’re going to need to make some decisions here. We can’t just pile everything in the garage.”
Why not? That’s where I’ve been mentally piling all my feelings about this situation.
“Right,” I said. “Decisions. I’m great at decisions. I definitely didn’t just marry my boss in a panic to help with a custody battle.”
My dad’s expression softened. “Sweetheart.”
“I’m fine!” My voice came out too high. Too bright. “Totally fine. Just... processing. You know. The normal amount of processing for someone who got married at city hall yesterday with a five-year-old as a witness and a marriage certificate that still smells like printer ink.”
“Cate.”
“I’m FINE!”
I was not fine. I was the opposite of fine. I was whatever word exists beyond ‘catastrophic meltdown’ in the anxiety dictionary.
“Mrs. Lyon!” Fitz’s voice boomed across the driveway. “Where do you want the bedroom stuff?”
