18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Aurora
“Fifteen eighty-four,” the cashier says after scanning the last candy.
I pull out the fancy credit card Sergei gave me for Misha’s expenses and go to pay.
When I spot the duct tape holding the card reader together, I feel like I should apologize to his card.
The machine tries to beep, but the sound sputters.
The cashier smiles apologetically and hands me a plastic bag with my purchased items.
I step outside and immediately tug my jacket’s hood over my head.
It’s not fully raining, just that annoying drizzle not heavy enough to justify an umbrella.
Pausing for a moment, I take in the sight before me.
Sergei leans against the car, holding the pump in one hand, dark jeans and a sweater visible beneath a light jacket.
Even with it on, the lines of his broad chest and thick, well-defined arms are evident—like a Greek god transported from the past, here to wreak havoc on all womankind.
Okay, brain. Reel it back a bit.
The memory of his grip on my neck and the slow bead of sweat that fell between his chest muscles, perfectly aligned with his cross tattoo, flashes through my mind.
I pull back the hood of my jacket to cool off, half-wondering if there’s visible steam rising off me when the rain hits my body.
The first half of the trip to Sergei’s house in Mount Charleston was miserable.
It started with Sergei spending thirty minutes wrestling Misha’s car seat into his car.
I could have helped, but I decided he might be too used to things going easily in his life and could benefit from a quick reality check.
He then decided on driving us himself, making an offhand comment about Pavel being otherwise occupied.
I didn’t mind at first until I realized I’d be sitting in the passenger seat beside him.
The situation grew even more uncomfortable when Sergei opted for no music, leaving the silence thick and suffocating.
It was as if he was still punishing me for barging into his bedroom.
Misha’s delighted chatter as he played with his new dinosaur toy was the only sound surrounding us.
What I can’t get over is the fact that Sergei sprang this on me at the last minute.
It felt almost deliberate, like he was asserting his power over my life to remind me of my duties as his son’s nanny—as if I could forget.
Any other weekend, it wouldn’t have bothered me that much.
After all, it’s not like I have a life outside of working anymore.
But this weekend, I needed to talk to Daniel about the case.
Considering what I thought I figured out, it was important to have such a conversation face-to-face, and I didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing me in the apartment.
Frustrated anew, I stomp across the unpaved parking lot to Sergei’s car as he places the pump back into its spot before walking to the driver’s seat and getting in.
If my presence makes him so uncomfortable that he hasn’t spoken a word the whole drive, why should I sit next to him?
So, I won’t.
I open the back door, slip in beside Misha, and place the plastic bag between us. Turning to the window, I catch a glimpse of Sergei gradually turning his head to watch me.
I swipe my damp hair from my face and take a breath before bravely meeting his gaze.
He doesn’t look happy. Clenching his jaw, he says, “I’m not your chauffeur. Come sit in the front.” Then he turns away, as if the discussion is over.
Annoyance bubbles up, fueled by his demeanor and, specifically, his tone.
Should I have apologized for barging into his bedroom?
He seemed content to pretend it didn’t happen, and I was more than happy to oblige.
Could he be bothered by Anton asking me out?
No, that would be preposterous. But if that’s the case, why should I be the one he’s angry with?
Shouldn’t that be directed at Anton? And more importantly, why would he even care to begin with?
“You’re not?” I raise an eyebrow. “You Ukrainian men all look the same to me.” I surprise myself with my audacity, but I’ve had enough of his attitude. Maybe he’ll appreciate the taste of his own medicine.
His eyes shoot up to the rearview mirror, and I muster all my willpower to hold his intense stare.
The next moment, Sergei throws open the car door and strides around the front, determination etched in every step.
Half a second before he reaches my door, I press the lock button.
A mischievous smile spreads across my lips.
If I thought Sergei was mad before, I have no idea what’s going through his mind now.
His face turns even redder, his eyes widening before narrowing, laser-focused on me.
He fists his hands and yanks on the door handle a few more times, shaking his head while pointing his index finger at the lock, daring me to open it.
My smile widens as I shake my head in response.
He pauses, as if weighing his options, opening his mouth to speak before clamping it shut into a tight line. His posture relaxes as he pulls the car keys from his pocket.
Oranges!
He dangles them in front of my face, my eyes darting between his now smirking expression and the keys.
Leaning close to the window, he pointedly presses the unlock button.
Just as he does, I quickly hit the lock again.
A nervous laugh escapes me as Misha lets out a delighted scream from beside me, thoroughly entertained by our childish antics.
One of Sergei’s eyes twitches, and I can’t help but grin wider.
He tries again, but I beat him to it, locking the doors with another quick tap.
We go back and forth like this a few more times until Misha tugs at my shoulder, distracting me long enough for Sergei to swing the door open.
“Hey!” I protest, my voice squeaking as he leans in and pulls me out of the car. “What are you doing?”
In one swift motion, he lifts me over his shoulder, lining up my face directly with his… well, his ass.
Oh God.
“Let me go!” I squirm, but he holds my thighs with one hand while swiftly opening the passenger door with the other. Despite his earlier speed with which he pulled me out of the car, he lowers me into the passenger seat slowly, carefully making sure my head doesn’t hit the door frame.
“Sergei!” I decide to use his first name, considering how close my face was to his ass moments ago. It rolls off my tongue more easily than I expected.
I beg my brain not to elaborate on that particular train of thought.
He leans in, his face flushed with anger.
The familiar sound of the seatbelt sliding fills the air as he pulls it and clicks it into place.
His face is only inches from mine now. Up close, I notice his dark gray eyes, flecked with hints of yellow around the pupils, and his freakishly long eyelashes framing his intense gaze.
Then there’s his scent—earthy and musky, surrounding me, stirring sudden sensations.
“Next time, do as I say,” he says through clenched teeth.
My eyes drop to his lips as he speaks, and I find myself licking mine involuntarily. “Or what?” I challenge.
His gaze shifts to my eyes. “I know you Americans are against corporal punishment, but it can have its benefits.” Before his words get processed in my shell-shocked brain, he slams the car door and strides back to his seat.
Did he just threaten to… spank me?
I swallow hard, a mix of disbelief and unexpected intrigue swirling within me. I don’t believe in corporal punishment, but for a brief moment, I’m gaining a new perspective on it.
Sergei turns on the car and pulls away from the gas station. I sit frozen, too embarrassed to look at him, and keep my eyes locked on my reflection in the side mirror instead.
I’m in so much trouble.
We arrive at the house moments before the sky gives in, releasing a torrential downpour. It’s the kind of rain that feels like someone turned on a faucet at full force.
I wrap Misha in my jacket and carry him inside. He peeks out from beneath the hood, trying to look at the gray sky. Like most kids his age, he finds the rain captivating. If given the chance, he’d run outside for hours, splashing in puddles without a care in the world.
I wonder if there’s a precise moment, like an on-off switch, when we transition from wanting to play and dance in the rain—jumping in puddles and soaking our clothes, reveling in the joy—to trying to avoid every drop, dreading the moment we need to run from one covered location to the next.
Maybe it’s not a single moment, but more of a gradual shift, evolving from a mindset of freedom and bliss to one of annoyance and frustration with Mother Nature—and, maybe, even life itself.
As I step inside, Misha pulls my hood off, letting raindrops fall onto the floor.
“Thank you,” I say, nuzzling my nose against his. He wraps his arms around my neck, resting his head in the nook of my shoulder as I turn to take in my surroundings.
If I thought Sergei’s apartment was luxurious, it now pales in comparison to the grandeur of this house.
The modern design flows seamlessly from the pristine white exterior, with bold black accents framing the windows and doors, to the interior adorned with sleek black fixtures and cabinets highlighted by touches of gold—chandeliers, faucets, and other elements that look gilded.
I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these details were actually made of gold.
Sergei sets our luggage by the front door and pulls open the tall, heavy curtains in the dining room.
I brace for a cloud of dust to be disturbed, but none rises.
I shouldn’t be surprised that this house is well-maintained, even in the absence of its owners.
Yet, despite the curtains being drawn, the natural light filtering through the windows fails to brighten the room.