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)
“It’s none of my business who your son is or is not into, Mrs. Alexeyev. My job is to be here for him and his daughter in strictly a professional capacity.” Momentarily lowering the still warm mug to rest in my lap is followed by a cordial grin. “And it’s the eyes.” The small shrug bounces around the curls that are resting on my shoulders. “They’re carbon copies of Igor’s and Bella’s.”
To my surprise, her body slightly melts. “You have no idea how happy I am that I gave them something other than blonde hair and an impressive ability to get a sunburn on a cloudy day.”
I lightly laugh at the comment prior to stretching out my hand. “Joey Grier, the nanny.”
“Anna Alexeyev, the mom.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“And you…” she softly echoes, one leg slowly being crossed over the other. “Do you mind me asking when exactly you were hired?”
“I believe yesterday.” Hard to give a definitive answer with a dead cellphone I haven’t had a chance to charge, and a CIA level blacked out memory for some unknown amount of time. “Did Igor not mention anything to you? Is that why I’m sensing a bit of tension already?”
Her eyebrows lift, clearly surprised by my bluntness.
“Respectfully, Mrs. Alexeyev-”
“Anna.”
“Anna,” I swiftly correct and continue, “while I would love for you to like me and approve of me, it’s actually something I don’t need in order to do my job.”
This time her jaw slightly lowers.
“Don’t get me wrong! Of course, I want my boss’s mother-”
“Mom.”
“-to want me in her son and her granddaughter’s lives, of course I want you to welcome me with open arms and an open heart, but I have to stand by my employer’s decisions when it comes to the parameters of what information he wants to communicate and with who in regard to the wellbeing of his daughter.” Her mouth twitches to respond, yet I don’t pause long enough for words to come out. “And speaking of, do you know where little Miss Bella is? She was literally sleeping on me like five minutes ago. Did she go crawl in bed with her daddy?” I finally retrieve the mug to have a sip. “Daddy being the term used to create consistency in her developing relationship vocabulary, not in the ‘I have a fantasy I’m subconsciously speaking about’ way, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I didn’t set an alarm or anything not because I prefer to sleep in – I’m typically up by five – but, because number one, my phone is dead. And number two, I wasn’t exactly sure what the routine was around here but figured Igor would come get me when he was ready for me to be up to discuss that and all the other relative day to day details.”
“Yeah, no, he left that for me to do,” she informs, voice shockingly riddled with mirth. “He’s just so thoughtful, isn’t he?”
Hiding my giggle behind my cup is barely done.
Definitely not the classiest moves, but the man is an athlete.
And not just any athlete.
The type that are notorious for being phenomenal on the ice and dog shit in social situations off it.
After our brief time together yesterday, I absolutely get the feeling that Bella isn’t the only one around here that’s going to need some – to use a more PC term – guidance.
People tend to frown or judge when you use the word training.
“Bella is downstairs on the couch watching Sesame Street and eating a package of Gushers.”
Alarm bells blare so loud I swear to God I’ve gone deaf in one ear. “For breakfast?!”
This eyebrow lift is clearly coated in skepticism. “He didn’t tell you about her medical condition?”
That she’s a direct decedent of Augustus Gloop?!
Swallowing the lump of dread that’s suddenly clogging my vocal cords isn’t easy nor enjoyable. “He…might’ve mentioned something?”
“And you’ve just forgotten already?”
“Not exactly.”
An unamused expression doesn’t hesitate to appear.
“I, myself, have a medical condition where…parts of my memory…go on…hiatus…for unknown amounts of time brought on by an overwhelmingly traumatic event or series of events, so there is a high probability your son did mention it during our interviewing process and that I simply can’t recall it, much like the interview itself – both of which are most likely written down in my notes that I don’t have access to at the moment courtesy of my dead cellphone.”
“Dissociative amnesia.” Her eyebrows pinching together occurs in tandem with her leaning slightly forward. “You have dissociative amnesia?”
“I do.” It’s my turn to shoot her a curious glare. “You a doctor?”
“No, but I work with doctors in a manner of speaking.” She sits up a little straighter. “I’m a partner in a company that sells surgical equipment wholesale.”
“Wow.”
“Hey, I needed something to pay the bills. Hockey is expensive. Twice as much when you’ve got two in it rather than one.”