Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Sounds noble when I put it like that.
That’s why I put it like that.
Is it noble?
Fuck it.
Maybe?
Is it a great way to get paid to never have to attach myself to anyone or anywhere for too long?
One hundred percent.
“That’s why your daddy hired me.” I shift my gaze up to the wide-eyed male who almost looks like he’s one wrong word away from a panic attack. “Isn’t that right, Daddy?”
The large male presses his lips tightly together and begrudgingly nods.
Okay.
That’s weird.
I mean…did he want me to tell her a less Elf friendly version of the truth?
You know about him having to work three jobs or pull in seventy hours a week or travel the globe for six months of the year nonstop just to put food on the table and clothes on her back?
Huh.
What does he do?
And why can’t I seem to recall anything about him?
Them?
This…job?
Was it something we were doing together that caused a dissociative episode?
Klaus on a Christmas Tree, I hate when I have one of these and know I’ve had one and know the information is somewhere, but not exactly where.
I hate how it makes my head throb.
And my chest ache.
And makes me feel like I’m coming off a six-day eggnog bender.
Don’t get me wrong.
I hate episodes I know I’ve had.
But I really fucking hate episodes I have no clue I’ve had.
At least with ones like this, there are immediate signs that I’m obviously missing something – given that I woke up with my latest assignment staring me in the face – versus waking up clueless to anything having happened until I check my phone and can’t recall where the last three days went.
What I probably hate most of all is the list of possible triggers is even longer and more random than a four-year-old’s wish list to Santa.
I especially hate that every therapist I’ve ever talked to about it gives me mixed feedback about what they could be.
The only thing they seem to completely agree on is that it stems from a childhood trauma I’ll probably always suppress.
“So, Mister…” A small cringe is displayed in hopes that he’ll help me out by giving me his name; however, no such luck. He’s either a little slow on social cues or a lot of stubborn. Or both. He could be both. The uncomfortable twisting in my stomach is screaming both. “Sorry. What’s your name again? I’m totally blanking right now. I know. I know. Not good for the woman you’ve hired to take care of your daughter, but it’s not entirely my fault. I suffer from dissociative episodes, where parts of my memory sort of play an inconvenient game of hide and seek-” Abruptly stopping is accompanied by frantic hand waves. “Which will not affect the safety of your daughter, I swear! That’s never been an issue before! You can check with all of my references again if you feel you need to. Both professional and medical will be happy to reassure you that such events have not endangered the wellbeing of a child or myself. And-”
“Alexeyev,” he quietly interrupts, hands awkwardly finding their way to his jean pockets. “My last name’s Alexeyev.”
“Mr. Alexeyev-”
“Igor.”
My mouth freezes mid-motion to process the new information. “Like the composer?”
The corner of his lips kicks upward. “Thank you for not saying shit about Frankenstein.”
“Ish.”
“What?”
“Tiny ears,” my head casually motions to the little girl who seems almost alarmingly fascinated by my thick head of hair, “tiny words.”
Igor’s face suddenly twitches as if just now realizing he swore.
“Swear I’m not some word prude, I just…know that no parent wants to get that call from school about their child dropping the F bomb or them teaching the whole class what word rhymes with witch during circle time.”
Warm chuckles shake his solid frame, noticeably loosening his shoulder from his ears.
Well, look at that.
He can smile.
And laugh.
And fuck me, are both of those things irresistible.
Shit…is this how he convinced me to come work for him?!
I thought I was immune to hot dad charm during interviews!
“You can have that gino,” Igor casually states.
“That mean goaaaalllll!” Bella translates and throws her hands in the air.
“Daddy…plays…hockey…?” I cautiously inquire leaving space for a correction.
“Daddy does.” An unexpected grimace is given. “Do you have to call me Daddy?”
“I prefer to when tiny ears are being included in the conversation. It’s to help establish an understanding and comprehension of various roles of the adults in their lives. It helps identify who has what authority in their world. Who is to be trusted. What relation they have in regard to oneself.” Folding my hands on top of my poofy yellow fabric covered stomach is followed by a professional grin. “It’s a subtle way to not only avoid confusion – I.E. the mommy vs nanny conversation – but also cognitive awareness in the constraints of their own personal family dynamic which may differ from others.”