Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
The round of “yes madam” that flutters out of the men should be satisfying.
Comforting.
Yet it isn’t.
I cross one leg over the other and wait until I’ve heard the door close to rest my head against the back of the seat, shutting my eyes in tandem.
Fuck.
Is it not enough that I have to second guess those who are employed by me?
Do I really need to be stuck in a position where I have to second guess my husband too?
Chapter 4
Yavok
“Ou! Ou! Ou!” Wendy, Wendell’s two-year-old daughter, screeches while wiggling out of control. “Ou! Daddy! Ou!”
“I’m barely touching you!” He grouses in return as he surrenders the hairbrush to the hardwood floor. “God, how the fuck does your mother do this shit every day?!”
“Practice,” I chortle while letting Vlad and Rhys, Wendell’s one-year-old son, ram their garbage trucks into mine. “You do enough,” redirecting the vehicle to drive underneath the coffee table has the boys quickly transitioning to their hands and knees to chase it, “you get hang of it.”
“Seriously?”
“Da.” Craftily avoiding their collision tactics causes me to lightly chuckle. “I professional.”
The man who feels like a cross between a brother-in-law and father-in-law releases a hearty laugh. “Alright, you cocky shit. Come over here and show me how it’s done then.”
Abandoning my truck allows the boys to violently smash their toys against it like a hammer to a nail, an action that everyone – and every book I’ve read – assures me is normal for all children that age.
It’s harder for me to believe because Kat wasn’t much for violence.
Still isn’t.
She’s always been more curious and cunning rather than destructive and diabolical.
Unlike her mother.
Her mother who slept in her home office for the previous two nights as part of the prolonged punishment for overstepping my place. Evidently, having to watch her mutilate one of her most trusted employees and then take him to the hospital where we had to wait for hours to get the cast, she correctly assumed he’d need wasn’t enough. She’s continuously speaking indirectly to me – including at dinner with our children – only calling me Mr. Kessler – unless speaking to our young ones – and gone to extreme lengths to avoid all physical contact.
It's torture that reminds me of days I swore we would never revisit.
What makes it all worse is it’s my fault we’re here.
Had I simply listened to Rowan when he suggested we wait to act I would be enjoying an afternoon play session with her before our daughter’s recital instead of one with these toddlers.
Though, I don’t hate playing with the kids.
There’s a different type of happiness to be found here.
One I’m especially glad to have when I can’t have the other.
I’m still needed as much as wanted here.
After grabbing the fallen brush, I drop down onto the edge of their L shaped couch, pull the basket of hair supplies to my side, and gently encourage Wendy to move her tiny frame to the space between my legs. “Tip, one.” Retrieving the brown bottle of assistance is completed on an arrogant smirk. “Always use generous amount of krem dlya volos.” I momentarily place the brush on the sofa and squeeze the liquid product into my hand. “Make easier to manage.” Reminiscing is naturally done during the spreading of the leave-in condition along the edge of Wendy’s hair line, “Kat have similar hair.” Carefully massaging it into her curls receives a happy sigh from his only daughter. “Have heard plenty of cries.” The discarded tool finds its way into my grip again. “Tip, two.” Another all-knowing grin graces my expression. “Distract.”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion.
“Wendy, zoo animals are favorite, da?”
Her small back lengthens in excitement. “Yeah!”
“Can name one?”
An excited squeal is leaked before she shouts, “Lion!”
“What sound make?” The roar is released in tandem with me delivering the first brushstroke to her hair. “Good! Ochen' khoroshiy!” Another is taken alongside the request for more examples. “Name other.”
“Elfint!”
I carry on collecting the loose locks into the first pile yet keep the conversation lax and casual. “Know that roar?”
“No roar, Uncle Yayick. This sound!” Wendy not only changes noises but demonstrates the trunk with her arm too. “I do again!”
And after she’s finished, I nonchalantly push, “Name more.”
While Wendell’s only girl joyfully continues listing animals before demonstrating their appropriate sounds, I progress in the pigtail department, getting two equally high, equally spread-out designs featuring oversized white scrunchies for added cuteness.
Not once does she wince.
Or cry.
Or even object to the activity.
She merely chatters and giggles and claps in pride over her accomplishments of knowing so much.
I toss Wendell one last smug smirk. “Final tip, reward.”
His eye roll is absolutely expected.
“Wendy,” my body leans slightly forward for our stares to connect, “want Uncle Yavok give treat for do so well with hair?”
“Yeah!”
“Applesauce squish or strawberry?”
“Gnawberry, pwease!”
I lock gazes with the man I easily consider one of my best friends on a crooked beam. “Healthy reward, da?”