18. Chapter Eighteen #2
Sergei flips the light switch, and the click echoes through the walls as the room comes alive. “Let me take him for a nap,” he says, stepping closer and reaching for Misha.
For a brief moment, as he takes Misha from my arms, we’re caught in a makeshift sandwich hug: I’m at one end, he’s at the other, and Misha is nestled between us.
The space we share is suffused with intimacy despite the mundane act.
It’s the type of intimacy that feels foreign to me, reckless even, given our current situation.
“Don’t you have a meeting?” I ask.
“No,” he says softly, kissing Misha’s head before heading upstairs.
My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and I automatically reach for it.
Daniel’s name lights up the screen, and I feel reality calling, trying to wake me from a rain-scented dream.
But the urgency I felt earlier, to meet and discuss the case, has faded.
Like a ratchet, each click of the car’s door lock shifted me further away from Daniel and his investigation, pulling me closer to Sergei.
I don’t bother checking his message. Instead, I press and hold the power button, feeling it dig into my skin as I swipe to turn the phone off.
To busy myself, I wander into the kitchen, mindlessly opening cupboards, drawers, and the refrigerator.
Sergei must have arranged for someone to stock the place ahead of time, because everything is full.
When my eyes land on a handful of blueberry muffins sitting on the corner of the counter, I rush toward them and take a bite from the largest one.
I narrow my eyes at the half-eaten muffin in my hand. “How did you know I’d be here?” I ask it.
“Talking to the muffin?” Sergei’s voice startles me, causing me to cough up an unchewed piece.
“Nope,” I say and tuck the muffin behind my back as I turn to face him.
“You don’t need to hide it from me. They’re here for you,” he says. Then he proceeds to open the refrigerator and take out ground meat and some eggs. “Do you want to help?”
“Of course.” I walk toward him, turning once to shove the rest of the pastry into my mouth. “What can I do?” I ask, mouth full.
Sergei half-smiles at the ridiculous look on my face. “Can you grab flour and onions from the pantry?” He steps to the sink to wash his hands.
I nod and do as instructed, following his lead. In the meantime, Sergei pulls out several mixing bowls and a rolling pin, setting them on the counter.
“What are we making?” I ask, grabbing the rolling pin. I shift it between my hands, eventually holding it with one like a weapon, tapping it rhythmically on the palm of the other.
“We,” he begins, reaching for the rolling pin, but I quickly move it behind my back, his warning about corporal punishment echoing in my mind.
“Are,” he continues as his arms come around me.
For a moment, we both freeze, his mouth warm against my ear when he leans closer and takes the rolling pin from me at last. “Making pelmeni,” he finishes breathlessly.
He begins preparing the dough, mixing the ingredients without measuring, operating more on instinct than precision.
“Who taught you how to cook?” I ask, mesmerized by his movements.
“My babushka.” He lays the rounded dough on the island. Stepping behind me, he holds the rolling pin as he asks, “Will you behave if I give this to you?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” I fake a laugh, reaching for it.
Sergei turns me around and places the rolling pin in front of me.
As he takes another step, his body aligns with mine, leaving hardly any space between us.
“Put your hands on it.” His voice is low and gravelly, coaxing my legs closer together.
“It’s important to hold it firmly,” he continues, “and apply just the right amount of pressure.” His hands cover mine, guiding me as we begin rolling the dough—slowly, methodically, expertly.
This is bad. This is so bad. I should think about the meaning of this, the consequences of us giving in, but every time my brain tries to grasp that logical thread, his hot breath against my cheek dispels it.
His touch sends goosebumps racing down my arms, tingling all the way to my toes as we roll the pin forward and backward, flattening the dough with each pass.
I draw my legs together, trying my best to ignore the tension simmering between my thighs.
But the second he guides our hands to the right, then to the left, spreading it further across the counter, the feeling intensifies.
With each movement, we lean forward, his body weight pressing against mine.
He pauses for a moment, one of his hands letting go of mine, and my skin immediately craves the lost contact.
But then he moves it to my stomach, drawing me to him, until every hard inch of him is pressed against all of me.
I drop my head back onto his chest, tilting my face to his without caring about the floury imprint he might leave on my shirt.
He doesn’t shift away. Instead, he moves just an inch closer so that his breath tingles on my lips and awakens all my nerve endings, sending them into overdrive.
Close. So close. I can almost—
Sergei’s phone rings, pulling him away like a lightning strike.
He clears his throat and steps into the dining room.
I lean on the counter, dizziness threatening to take me down.
To diffuse the bomb I’ve turned into, I swing open the freezer door and grab a handful of ice cubes, which immediately stick to my fingertips.
Then I fling open the cupboard, take out a cup, and drop the cubes in before pouring water over them.
I fish one out and bring it to my neck in a failed attempt to cool off.
“What are you doing?” I mumble. The ice cube slowly melts, liquid dripping down my neck. I’m surprised it doesn’t evaporate immediately upon contact with my skin.
How is it possible that the most mundane moments with Sergei—moments where we do nothing more than exchange a look or a slight touch—make me feel like I’m burning up, on the verge of being incinerated?
“We discussed… the payments,” Sergei’s hushed voice carries through the air. “Yes, and I told you the next one will be delivered as promised… You think you did a good job? This is still a mess.”
He said he needed me here to work, but this is the first work call I’ve seen him take.
And, come to think of it, he didn’t grab his laptop bag either.
The thought that he didn’t need me here in my nanny capacity but genuinely wanted me around crosses my mind.
I’m afraid it plants a seed, and a slight sprinkle of hope begins to nourish the already growing notion.
Is it possible that he, like me, feels this magnetic pull between us?
It’s a dangerous thought. I’m not sure if I’m ready to blur the lines of my responsibilities and give in to whatever this is between us. I’m still wrapped up in my investigation with Daniel, and…
“Are you all right?” Sergei’s voice startles me.
“Yep. I’m great. Is everything all right with you?” I ask, pointing at him.
“Yes, just… work.” He rubs his temples, and a sudden urge to comfort him grips me.
“I’m surprised the phone call even went through—the reception here can be unreliable.
” He stares at the phone in his hand, then lifts his gaze to meet mine.
Tucking it back into his pocket, he adds, “I can finish up if you want to go rest.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to step away and take a breather… before one of us does something we might regret.
After a delicious dinner, the three of us settle into the cinema room, because of course this house has one.
Two rows of wide, smooth leather loungers face a screen that stretches across the wall.
Soft, dimmable lights create a cozy ambiance, while the walls are lined with rich dark colors that add to the intimate feel of the room.
To the side, shelves are stocked with snacks, and a medium-sized refrigerator holds drinks and more treats.
In the corner, a large red popcorn machine fills the air with the enticing aroma of freshly popped kernels.
Sergei hands me a glass of wine as Misha curls up with his dinosaur bottle and a large tub of popcorn.
His favorite Soviet cartoon lights up the screen, featuring a wolf chasing a clever bunny who outsmarts him at every turn.
The wolf’s famous catchphrase, “Nu, pogodi!” echoes as both Sergei and Misha join in.
When Misha starts to get sleepy, I offer to handle bedtime, hoping the distraction will keep me from reaching for another glass of wine. But Sergei insists on taking care of it himself, leaving me to wander the house, lost in thought.
Outside, the world is cloaked in a veil of rain, droplets hitting the pool with a rhythmic bounce, as if they’re landing on a trampoline of water.
As I step into the living room, I take a moment to truly examine it for the first time.
A low, wide, L-shaped gray couch complements the room’s classic elegance.
Colorful cushions add a vibrant touch to the otherwise muted decor.
The coffee table’s surface reflects the warm glow from strategically placed low-lit lamps.
A plush white rug sprawls across the polished hardwood floor, inviting bare feet to bask in its luxurious softness.
Sinking into the rug, I run my fingers through its soft fibers.
Sergei’s footsteps thud down the stairs, and I rise to my elbows.
“You’ve gotten so much better at putting him down,” I remark as he enters, now dressed in a white long-sleeved thermal shirt, the sleeves pulled up to his elbows.
I consciously avoid dropping my gaze to his gray sweatpants.
“Thank you,” he replies, and I can tell he genuinely appreciates my compliment. “I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time.” He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I get the sense most parents feel like that at some point.”