20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Sergei
That kiss.
The weekend was nothing like I expected.
Dragging her to Mount Charleston on a whim made me question my sanity.
But the suffocating jealousy I felt when Anton dared to ask her out made me act on impulse.
It’s not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. Because when it comes to Aurora, my ability to control myself is nonexistent.
It isn’t logical—who in their right mind would grab another adult and toss them over their shoulder, scolding them, threatening to spank them? Did I say that out loud?
There were no meetings this past weekend.
I’m trying to be more present in Misha’s life, to be a good father—a real papa.
Yet here I am, falling into one of the oldest clichés by getting involved with my son’s nanny.
I can imagine the trouble if anyone finds out.
My character and judgment will be questioned once more.
Alessia’s death will be back in the spotlight, and so will the insinuations about my involvement in it.
I should be focusing on the hotel. My attention should be on Misha.
But it’s like I’m stuck on a teeter-totter, my responsibilities to my business on one side and Misha on the other.
And now Aurora is disrupting the little balance I’d managed to maintain.
Because every glance from her, every smile, every touch, unscrews the metal bolts, weakening the stability and control I’ve carefully worked to achieve.
Kissing her was like being suspended in midair, her lips full and lush, her skin warm and damp like the aftermath of a storm.
Maybe it was for the best Misha interrupted us.
After checking on him, I returned to the pool, hoping we could talk about what happened.
But she wasn’t there. I considered knocking on her door, but I didn’t want her thinking I was coming to get laid.
I’m her employer, and she lives under my roof.
I never want to be the kind of person, the kind of man, who abuses his power with a woman.
But she isn’t just any woman—she’s… Rora.
She was the one who started undressing and suggested we go for a swim.
Maybe she, too, is contending with her emotions about…
us. Maybe she, too, struggles to sleep, and work, and eat, and simply breathe without thinking about me.
Maybe she remembers the pressure of my fingers, the taste of my tongue, imagining them on other parts of her body.
I planned to talk to her in the morning, but when the time came, my resolve crumbled.
Instead, I packed us up to return to the city.
Aurora kept her distance for the rest of the day, directing her questions to me through Misha, asking, “Mish, did Papa remember your stuffed animal?” and “Mish, should we grab more snacks for the road?” I nodded occasionally, trying to gauge how much she wanted to communicate with me directly.
I’ll give her the space, if that’s what she needs. If she doesn’t want to talk about what happened, I’ll respect that. I think… I can manage that.
Aflash of lightning jolts me awake just before thunder crashes through the heavy clouds.
I get up and open one of the tall windows in my bedroom.
The wind and the scent of rain hit me all at once, but I keep my eyes wide open, taking it all in.
I’ve always found nights like this to be soothing and serene.
There’s something about the falling rain and thundering sky that’s like fuel for my restless soul.
The city is even more distant now, its lights blurred and smudged by the downpour, like an unfocused photograph taken in haste.
Inhaling the crisp air, I try to let the remnants of my dream wash away.
It was the same nightmare as always, the same cold, lifeless body.
Yet, my nightmares have become less frequent, less vivid.
Sometimes, it’s not even Alessia’s face I see.
I know I should be relieved that my shadowed subconscious is loosening its grip, the long talons of its hold slipping away, but the easing of the burden only deepens my guilt.
Because I should feel guilty.
Another flash of lightning pierces the darkness, illuminating my bedroom. As I turn to head back to bed, a thunderclap louder than before is followed by Misha’s terrified scream.
I rush to his room, finding him reaching out with desperate arms, calling for me.
“Papa! Papa! Papa!” His voice is a relentless torrent of need.
I scoop him into my arms, feeling his warm, sweaty body against me, his tiny frame shaking with every shuddering breath.
A moment later, Aurora rushes in. “Is he okay?” she asks, concern etched on her face.
“Yes,” I reply. “Looks like he got scared by the thunder.”
Aurora nods gently, starting to close the door, but Misha yells, “No! Stay!” and points at her.
She meets my eyes in the dim light, and I whisper, “Stay.”
Aurora tiptoes over to Misha’s bed and climbs onto it, settling between him and the wall.
I try not to notice the silhouette of her breasts in the thin striped top clinging to her body like a second skin, or her long legs in dark briefs, which should be illegal.
Diverting my attention, I focus on tucking Misha under the covers, then lying down beside him on the other side.
He snuggles comfortably, pulling one arm from each of us close to his chest. Aurora lays her head on the pillow next to Misha’s, now positioned very close to mine. I catch that familiar lavender scent again, and I sink further into the bed.
“My neck is going to hurt like crazy,” she whispers, trying to readjust the pillow but struggling to find a comfortable position.
Without a word, without even thinking—because apparently any logical thought vanishes when I’m near her—I draw my arm around the back of her neck.
She freezes.
“May I?” I whisper.
She nods, and I begin to gently massage her neck, pressing deeply into the muscles.
“Is this helping?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, her voice quivering.
“Do you think he’s asleep?” I glance at Misha, whose deep, rhythmic breaths fill the room, cutting through the white noise machine mimicking ocean sounds. His inhales and exhales remain unmistakably steady and monotonous.
“Better to be safe,” Aurora replies.
“Yes, I agree,” I say and continue to work the tension out of her neck.
Minutes pass in complete silence as we lie there.
I keep tracing circles on her neck, and she leans into my touch, surrendering with the soft, trusting vulnerability of a kitten being stroked.
With every press of my thumb, my heartbeat quickens, its drumbeat syncing with her pulse.
It’s as if our hearts are aligning, echoing each other in a shared rhythm of want, desire, and need.
At one point, as I massage the tender spot between her neck muscles near the base of her hairline, she lets out a soft moan, causing me to pause.
I’m tempted to continue, but the fear that her sounds will hit me like a battering ram against the gates of my barely restrained desire makes me hesitate.
I turn onto my back, tucking my arm beneath my head as I glance up at the constellation of stars on Misha’s ceiling.
In this quiet moment, I reflect on my decision to give her space and follow her lead. But lying beside her, a gnawing uncertainty settles in. Am I misinterpreting her signals, or am I reading too much into something that means nothing at all?
As I’m about to suggest we leave, her voice breaks through the turbulence of my memories. “So…” she turns onto her side and props her head on her arm, “what makes your hotel unique?”
Her interest sparks a warm joy within me. “It’s called Chernov International,” I say. “My goal was to make people from all backgrounds feel welcome. Despite America being advertised as a melting pot, open to immigrants, my experience growing up was far from that.”
I take a deep breath, my eyes closing as I’m transported back to the early days of being an immigrant at school.
I hope she might ask further questions. But she doesn’t.
Maybe she fears it would turn into a sentimental sob story of a kid with a name no one can pronounce and whispered rumors of a communist agenda.
She’d be right, too. Bullies used to mock my packed lunches of stuffed peppers and the religious insistence of adding sour cream to everything.
They sure stopped laughing after I broke a nose or two and fully embraced the image of a scary Eastern European.
“Are there actual commercials advertising America?” she asks.
“Yes, whole billboards and radio ads promising two kids, a dog, a huge house, and a white picket fence,” I tease.
“You’ve got to have the white picket fence,” she confirms.
“Without it, you can ask for a refund.” I turn to face her, trying to hide a smile as Misha stirs in his sleep.
She lowers her voice further, asking, “So, what would I find if I scraped together enough money to stay at your fancy-shmancy hotel?”
I know she’s being playful, like she was with the car door. She finds these little ways to lighten the mood, making me feel like a real person and not some robotic shell.
“Well, my plan is to bring international culture and cuisine to America. I want the experience to be as authentic as possible, so we invite groups from around the world to perform at the hotel.” This aspect has been my favorite—fostering artistic and cultural diversity.
“Each room is themed around a different country, featuring authentic historical art from that nation. Guests can select a room based on their preferred country, with options for various types of beds, views, and amenities,” I explain.
“So, your hotel isn’t just for sleeping and eating. It’s like a cultural experience, an attraction people can visit.”
A chill shivers down my spine at her understanding. It’s foreign to me to have someone interested in my life to begin with, and the fact that it’s Aurora… My heart soars in dizzying aerobatics.
I hesitate before asking, “What about you? Have you always known that you wanted to be a school psychologist?”
She’s silent for what feels like forever, and I curse myself for ruining the moment.
“Actually, no.” She looks up at the stars above us.
“For a long time, I considered pursuing forensic psychology after graduation, but once I took a class on it and found out what forensic psychologists actually do, I lost interest. That same semester, though, I enrolled in a child psychopathology class, and I was hooked. The idea of helping children navigate emotions, behaviors, and academic challenges felt immensely rewarding.”
I want to ask if she knows what happened with her internship not panning out.
I consider offering her some words of reassurance, but not wanting to sound superficial or condescending, I decide to stay quiet.
Maybe I should see if Nadia can dig up any information about it.
Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.
“Have you ever stayed in your hotel as a guest?” She changes the subject as she turns to look at me again.
“I used to when we had our soft launch. I wanted to experience it as my guests would, so I’d book a room under a pseudonym to keep the staff from recognizing me. That way, I could address any issues discreetly.”
She giggles, and I’m filled with an intense desire to capture that sound and play it on a loop. “What names did you use?”
“I chose names of Ukrainian authors and poets, like Taras Shevchenko and Nikolai Gogol.”
She lifts her head from where it rested on her wrist. “And no one realized those were the names of dead people?” A hint of sarcasm laces her voice.
“You’d be surprised, but not many Americans are familiar with old Ukrainian poets.”
She falls quiet, and I worry that my comment might have offended her.
“You mentioned food from different countries?” she asks, moving her hand over mine, and suddenly, I’m not sure if I’m still alive because I’m certain my heart has stopped beating.
I hesitate, but then I intertwine our fingers, allowing myself a small, stiff smile. “Yes,” I continue, more relaxed. “The hotel features seven unique restaurants, each themed for a different continent.”
“No way!” she exclaims a bit too loudly, causing Misha to shift between us. Then, lowering her voice, she whispers, “Even for Antarctica?”
“Yes, even for Antarctica. It’s one of our most popular ones.”
“Tell me more,” she says, pulling our hands toward her, across Misha, placing them on her waist.
“Well, for Antarctica, it’s more about the atmosphere,” I say, forcing myself to focus on my words rather than the placement of my hand.
“We’ve designed it with artificial ice furniture and keep the temperature cold, so we provide winter coats to our guests.
The menu features warm foods, like fondue—both cheese and chocolate—s’mores, and other comforting desserts.
” My hand continues to rest on her waist, two of my fingers placed on her shorts, while three fortunate others brush against her skin.
“That sounds amazing,” she says, shifting slightly as she runs her hand along my arm. “When I save up enough from working for your pretty face, I’ll book a Ukrainian room and enjoy some delicious fondue in Antarctica.”
We both pause, aware of her slip-up, but we ignore it and continue our conversation.
My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and with the nightlight and the glowing stars on the ceiling, I can almost make out her face.
We keep talking about the hotel, and it quickly becomes clear that Aurora knows more about it than Alessia ever did.
While Alessia used to ask about it when we first started dating, her questions felt generic, like part of a script to get to know someone—surface-level, with no real depth.
I know it’s unfair to compare Aurora to Alessia, and I’m a lesser man for doing so, but Aurora makes me feel seen and heard in a way I hadn’t realized I wasn’t.
In Alessia’s eyes, my worth often felt limited to mere physical presence or financial success.
It’s as though I’m reconnecting with a part of myself that had become numb, lost in the monotonous routine of daily tasks.
Talking about the hotel sparks the creative part of my brain, which has been dulled by the harsh realities of business and cutthroat competition.
Maybe, just maybe, Aurora can help me explore this spark further.
If I can climb out of the rut filled with pointless signatures and red tape, I can live a better life. Not just me, but Misha, too.
Strange thoughts of peace, of happiness, of curiosity occupy my mind as I drift into the calmest, nightmare-free sleep I’ve had in a long time. All the while, a subtle hint of lavender stays with me.