4. Chapter Four #2
“If Nadia thought it was fitting to invite you over, a full background check, including references, has already been done.” Sergei’s lips twitch into a faint, sardonic smile. “And anyone who chooses to work with young children must be at least semi-insane.”
His casual remark catches me off guard, and I find myself chuckling, despite the tension of the moment. I study him, trying to gauge his seriousness, but his demeanor remains composed and businesslike.
“When can you start?” he asks again, glancing at his watch.
“I might need to give notice at my other jobs.”
“Jobs?” His eyes drop to my outfit.
I hurry to smooth my pink sweater over my slacks. “No reservations whatsoever about quitting Dancing Monk,” I babble quickly, “but I’d like the option to continue teaching the occasional swim lesson on weekends.”
The thought of returning here fills me with excitement—not only because I could quit my bar job, but also because I’d have the chance to work with Misha.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed meaningful interactions with kids.
Nannying for him, while not my original dream, feels close enough for now.
I’d be with him every day, helping him develop essential skills and supporting his language acquisition. I could make a real difference.
Plus, I’m sure the nanny salary will keep me afloat until the next internship application cycle.
“I’m here! I’m here.” An older, slender woman rushes out of the private elevator, several black folders clutched to her chest. She kicks off her square heels, swapping them for yellow fuzzy slippers.
“So sorry, Sergei. Larissa’s ultrasound appointment ran late.
” After catching her breath, she starts to extend her hand to me, then pauses.
“Wait.” She fully steps over the threshold into the living room.
“We can’t shake hands across the doorway—it will lead to conflict.
” She smiles at me like that should make perfect sense. “You must be Miss Sinclair?”
“Yes,” I say and nod at the same time.
“Excellent. I’m Nadia Volkov. We spoke on the phone. I’ll be taking over the interview now.” She glances at Sergei as if waiting for him to leave.
He holds her stare, and I’m confident a silent conversation passes between them before he finally looks away. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m expecting a phone call.” He checks his watch again. “Also…” His appraising gaze drops to my feet. “We don’t wear shoes in the house.”
I quickly bend down to take them off. “I’m sorr—” I start, but Sergei has already disappeared into a room down the hall.
“That’s all right, dear.” Nadia pats my shoulder as she gestures toward the living room. “It’s just we Ukrainians don’t like shoes in the house.”
Holding my pumps to my chest, I step into the spacious room.
It’s larger than my old apartment—resembling a modern museum with its clean lines, high ceiling, and monochrome color palette.
The only real color comes from the artwork on the walls and the subtle hues of the throw pillows.
It feels impersonal, as if it was lifted straight from a high-end interior design catalog, lacking any personal touches.
Has it always been this way, or is the cold atmosphere a reflection of the recent tragedy that struck the household?
The absence of toys is particularly odd, considering how tenaciously young children insist on cluttering every living space with their belongings.
In fact, looking around, you would never guess that a child lives here.
“Take a seat.” Nadia points to the couch as she sits on the light gray accent chair.
After lining up my shoes carefully along the entrance to the living room, I dust off my butt to ensure I don’t have any dirt on it, then sit at the edge of the white couch. I brace myself with my legs to maintain balance, anxious not to disturb the couch’s pristine fabric.
My attention veers to the large stainless-steel clock on the wall, which serves as the focal point of the room in place of a television.
Its sleek features and elongated hour and minute hands catch the light of the extravagant chandelier above me.
Mesmerized by the exposed gear train, I hold my breath, waiting for it to move.
Other than the minute hand that moves in slow motion, the room—the whole apartment—feels frozen in time.
Nadia patiently waits until my focus returns to her. “Let’s begin.”
She starts by asking me some standard questions about my qualifications and experience. I’m grateful she doesn’t mention the gap in my field employment since graduation, as I’m not confident I’d be able to provide a reason that won’t make me look bad.
“Well, based on everything I’m seeing here, it seems like you’d be a good fit, especially since, as you mentioned, you managed to get Misha to take a nap,” she explains.
“He’s been struggling after his mother’s death and the constant rotation of nannies.
” The constrained eye roll she adds tells me exactly how she feels about that particular fact.
I wonder if it has been a mere fluke, if Misha has had a rough time connecting with someone, or if maybe the real reason might be his six-foot-three father and that intimidating stare of his.
“Do you have any questions?” Nadia asks before I can follow up.
I nod. “Oh! I no longer own a car, so if you need me outside my usual hours, I’ll need a bit of notice. The bus schedule can be inconsistent in the evenings—”
“Anton will pick you up,” Sergei says as he enters the living room, lowering his phone from his ear.
I jump off the couch like a cat who’s seen a cucumber. “Um, who’s Anton?”
Sergei turns to Nadia, ignoring my question entirely. “Can you reach out to him and reaffirm that I don’t care how, but he needs to get that signature?”
On her way out, Nadia mutters something in what I think is Russian. It sounds angry, but for all I know, she could’ve wished him a wonderful day.
I lean sideways to watch her leave, overdo it, and nearly topple over onto the floor. I catch myself and straighten quickly, looking up until my gaze locks with Sergei’s. I press my lips together, giving him an awkward, tight-lipped smile. My cheeks must be tomato-red at this point.
“Anton will be your and Misha’s driver,” Sergei answers my earlier question. His eyes scan my face, and for a split second, I think they drop to my mouth, though I might be imagining it.
The room suddenly heats up, and I find myself flushed and sweating. I lift my sweater in a fanning motion, trying to draw some air underneath it.
Sergei follows my movements before glancing at his watch. “Is he still sleeping?”
“I think so. I didn’t hear him call out, but you also took the baby monitor with you.”
Sergei takes it out of his pocket to check on Misha.
“You had questions?” he asks, sitting down on the couch.
He crosses one leg over the other at the ankle, extending an arm along the top of the couch while resting the other on his leg.
He blends in perfectly with the room’s aesthetics.
The pose makes him look like a stoic catalog model, captured in black and white, as if the colored version might be too much for us to handle.
I swallow, reminding myself to breathe. What’s wrong with me? I sit on the accent chair but then realize maybe I shouldn’t, so I get up. Standing feels awkward too, so I start to crouch back down, but at the last moment I change my mind and straighten up again.
Sergei stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Miss Sinclair, would you please sit?”
I gingerly sit down, doing my best to collect my thoughts. “Nadia didn’t get the chance to go over the schedule. Do you have one you would like me to adhere to?”
“On the days you work, be here by seven-thirty in the morning, and you’ll likely need to stay until about six in the evening.
” Sergei glances at his watch again. I try to ask him about his son’s schedule, but he gives me bare-minimum answers, reminiscent of Maya’s succinct replies when asked about her day.
“I meant a schedule for Misha. Like when he eats, what he eats, when he naps, where he goes, and so on?” My tone comes out more impatient than I intend, earning a sharp glance from Sergei. The physical force of his stare causes me to involuntarily lean back.
Sergei clenches his jaw, his fingers pressing into the couch. Now I’m confident my questions are irking him.
“You know what, I’ll just figure it out,” I say, shaking my head. I know men like Sergei tend to rely on their spouses or hired help to raise their children, but I thought after losing his wife the way he did, he might want, or need, to step in. I guess… maybe I was wrong.
He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “He hates grapes. He fights naps. He loves dinosaurs, anything related to dinosaurs,” Sergei says.
Something in his facial expression makes me wonder if this isn’t a case of not wanting to care for his son, but rather not being able to, or not knowing how.
“That’s good to know. Dinosaurs are a common fascination for little boys.”
He nods once, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, but he doesn’t say anything for a few moments.
I lower my gaze to my feet, realizing I’m wearing different colored socks.
I’m praying Sergei won’t notice as I look up at the ceiling.
Had I known I’d be taking off my shoes, I would’ve kept digging through the laundry hamper a bit longer.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I become acutely aware of my breathing, the mechanics of it—expand the rib cage, draw in air, hold it. Let the air out, hold it. Repeat.
He clears his throat. “It was interesting how you established a rapport with him so quickly.”