Page 102 of Accidental Doctor Daddy

“I’ll be back up in a couple hours,” I told Martha, handing Summer back.

She gave me a knowing nod. “We’ll be here.”

Back in the kitchen, the lull ended with a flurry of lunch orders—clubs, melts, and the occasional special request for a fancy salad, each with their own spin on the dish. I thrived onthat mild chaos, orchestrating the line without feeling crushed by it, which was new. In Manhattan, I’d be gulping coffee, sweating through my chef coat, and praying for a spare minute. Here, I actually had a moment to chat with staff.

“Chef,” Marcus called from the stove, “what do you think about adding roasted poblano peppers to the soup tomorrow?”

I checked the simmering pot. “Do it,” I said, tasting a spoonful. “We’ll call it southwestern tomato bisque. Might spice things up for the dinner crowd.”

He gave me a thumbs-up. This dynamic was refreshing—I had the authority to shape the menu and still had the time to collaborate. No Carrie side-eye, no last-minute chaos overshadowing everything.

After the rush calmed, Tanya sidled over, wiping flour off her hands. “So, chef, you free to grab a coffee after this shift?”

I considered my schedule. “Yeah, I can do that. Martha’s got the twins, and I have a couple of hours before dinner.”

She grinned. “Awesome. I know a great place around the corner. Cozy vibes, strong coffee.”

“Sold. The only coffee I get is quick slugs in the storage room.”At least I’m not inhaling it in sheer panic like I used to.

Sure enough, after we closed lunch service, I told Marcus to hold the fort, changed into a clean shirt, and followed Tanya out onto the street. The crisp Chicago air felt good against my skin. People passed by with polite nods, a few in business attire, others more casual. The city’s vibe was calmer than Manhattan—less tension crackling in the air.

Tanya led me into a small coffee shop with wooden booths and a chalkboard menu. Once we had our drinks, mine a straightforward Americano, hers a caramel latte with extra whipped cream, we grabbed a corner table.

“So,” she said, leaning forward, “how are you settling in? Everything going well with the nanny, the apartment, that sort of thing?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” I blew on my coffee. “Martha’s great. The apartment’s bigger than anything I ever had in New York.”

She sipped her latte, foam dotting her upper lip. “And emotionally? You know…the breakup.”

My chest tightened. The second night at the restaurant, I made the mistake of getting drinks with the staff to get to know everyone and drunkenly confessed what brought me to Chicago after the group had dwindled down to me and Tanya. Thankfully, aside from being a wonderful pastry chef, she worked like our restaurant’s HR slash counselor.

“Still sucks,” I admitted, tracing the rim of my cup. “Time heals all wounds, right?”

Tanya reached across, patting my forearm. “That’s what they say.”

A wry laugh escaped me. “Doesn’t make the nights any easier, though.”

“Give it time. Chicago will grow on you, or maybe the universe has other plans. Could be this heartbreak frees you for something unexpected. You have to stay open to the possibilities of what might come along.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, forcing a smile. “We’ll see.” I fought with myself about what to say next. Tanya was always cheery, always positive. I wanted to warn her about living life that way, but I also didn’t want to take that away from her. If anyone could get through life happy as a clam, who was I to take that away from them?

We chatted about menu ideas and local festivals—apparently, Chicago had a million street fairs in the summer. Eventually, I headed back, grateful for the new friend I’d made and doing everything I could not to think about Dom.

That evening, I took the elevator up to find Martha humming a lullaby to the twins. She nodded at me, her crochet project still progressing, the twins dozing in a playpen. My heart squeezed.They look so peaceful.I saw her off, handing her an envelope with her weekly pay.

After that, I sank onto the sofa, listening to the quiet. My phone lay on the table, a brand-new Chicago number. No messages from Dom, obviously—he had no way to reach me now.

I forced myself not to think about him, focusing on the twins instead. But as I tucked them into their cribs, the memories rolled in like a tide: the way Dom used to cradle Marissa, how he’d grin whenever Summer grasped his finger. I pressed kisses to their foreheads, stepping back. “Sleep tight, my loves.”

In the tiny living room, I flicked on a lamp and picked up a battered notebook of recipes. My new boss was giving me free rein to experiment, so I’d jotted down half a dozen marinade concepts. But the scrawled notes blurred before my eyes, overshadowed by the heartbreak I couldn’t quite bury.

A knock on the door startled me. I hurried over, worried the noise might wake the twins. Cracking it open, I found Martha again, sheepish. “Forgot my keys on the counter,” she whispered.

I grabbed them from the coffee table, offering an apologetic smile. “No problem.”

She lingered, brow furrowing. “You all right, dear? You look…sad.”

My heart wobbled. “I’m fine. Just a long day.”

---