4. Chapter Four #3
The compliment catches me off guard. I notice the word choice—interesting. Not good, not reassuring, but interesting.
And yet, the praise makes my shoulders shimmy, and my arms sway. Once I realize what I’m doing, I stiffen and draw them back along my body. Where do my arms usually go? The gesture catches Sergei’s attention, and he gives me a questioning glare. I drop my eyes back to my mismatched socks.
Slowly, I force myself to meet his stare.
“Kids are naturally trusting. As long as you meet them at their level, it’s relatively easy.
The real challenge is getting them to do things they don’t want to,” I respond, trying to sound confident.
“How do you know Layla?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
“Who?”
“Layla. My friend. She sent me a photo of Nadia’s business card and suggested I contact her for this job.”
“Ah.” He pauses to think. “I met her at a party through a mutual acquaintance.”
That’s strange. I wouldn’t expect Layla and Sergei to move in the same circles. Maybe she’s dating someone new and didn’t get the chance to tell me yet?
“Papa?” Misha’s voice echoes through the monitor. “Papa!”
After Misha’s nap, Sergei and I agree that Misha and I should spend some time together so he can get to know me better. Once we finish the stack of books he chose before his nap, I decide to take him out for ice cream. Nothing wins over kids quite like it.
As we prepare to leave, Sergei hands me a sleek black credit card, instructing me to use it for anything Misha might need.
Holding the card, I wonder what it must be like to trust a complete stranger with both your child and your money so easily.
But isn’t that what most parents do? They entrust their little ones to daycares and schools, often paying exorbitant sums that take a hefty bite out of their paychecks, hoping those in charge will care for them properly.
This is the first time I’ve been given such responsibility, not the school I work for or the swimming center, but me—Aurora Sinclair—solely responsible for a little boy’s life and well-being.
Just the two of us. No supervision. No oversight.
At the realization, I feel my heart drop into my stomach.
What if something goes wrong? What if Misha won’t listen to me?
It takes time for kids to recognize someone as an authority figure.
What if he runs away? What if he darts into the street?
What if he falls off a swing, slips in the bathtub, or chokes on a grape? No, he hates grapes. No grapes.
Oh God, what was I thinking, that I could do this?
The elevator’s ping pulls me back to reality as a burly man steps out, his round face breaking into a wide grin.
His black hair is gelled, though it still looks messy.
Despite his robust build, the brown suit he wears is half a size too big.
His shirt is partially unbuttoned, revealing a prominent gold cross chain that dangles around his neck.
“Anton!” Misha runs to wrap his arms around the man’s leg.
“Mishka,” Anton says, affectionately tousling Misha’s hair. His gaze then shifts to me, surprise flickering in his eyes.
“I thought Nadia told you to go to Raymond’s office,” Sergei says, maintaining a polite distance from me and Misha.
“I was, but I wanted to drop by and discuss”—a smile forms on Anton’s face as he glances back at me—“options.”
“Fine. Let’s talk in the office,” Sergei replies, gesturing behind him. His attention drifts back to me. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes,” I reply, extending my hand to Misha, who eagerly takes it. “And if not, Misha and I will figure it out.” I give him a reassuring squeeze in an attempt to comfort both of us.
As we step outside the apartment building, Misha lets go of me and bolts forward. I quickly follow, catching him before he collides with a woman in a suit, who stumbles back with a startled expression.
“Be careful, little guy,” I say, kneeling in front of him. “How does ice cream sound?”
Misha’s hands flutter with excitement as he throws his arms around my neck.
I glance up at the towering building, thinking of the man residing in the penthouse.
On the surface, he seems to have it all—the money, the power, the stability—and yet…
there’s a hollowness in his eyes. Even in the photos I scrolled through last night, when he had beautiful women on his arm, and eventually his gorgeous wife, he always looked so…
cold, so unbothered, as if he didn’t want to be there.
I can’t help but wonder if he was always that way, or if something in him dimmed long before his wife died.
Will he be able to find the ability to enjoy the little things again? Where would he even start?
Misha tugs on my sweater, pulling me from my thoughts. I look down at him, his big brown eyes staring up at me. Here. This is where you find joy.
I bend down to his level and draw him into a reassuring hug. With renewed determination to be the best nanny I can, I take his hand and head toward the ice cream shop.