Page 1 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

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NAOMI

“You’re supposed to sprinkle the flour, not eat it!”

Dariya’s adorable six-year-old face crinkles in utter disgust and she quickly retracts her flour-covered fist from her mouth, leaving a small trail of saliva clinging from her lip to her knuckle.

“Not good,” she groans and her cute button nose scrunches high.

Chuckling, I grab the cloth neatly tucked into my belt and quickly wipe her hand clean.

“No, sweetheart, not good at all. It might look like sugar but it’s definitely not the same.”

Dariya shakes her head so fiercely that her thick, brown hair threatens to escape the two large pigtails I wrestled it into this morning, then she reaches for the flour bag once more. I gently catch her wrist.

“Let me this time.”

She nods, her brown eyes widening as she watches me like a hawk when I take a small handful of flour and sprinkle it on the counter. The dough we worked on earlier sits nearby. Once the counter is suitably covered, I tear off a small piece and set it in front of her.

“Now, the flour is to make sure none of this sticks to the counter. Do you remember what I taught you last time about kneading?”

Dariya nods, blinking up at me with her adorably wide, toothy smile, and then she sticks her fists directly into the dough. It’s so comical that I can’t hold in my laugh. Placing my hands over hers, I carefully mirror the kneading motion, and I release her once she’s in rhythm.

“It’s so squidgy!”

“Yup. And it’s going to taste amazing. It might not look amazing but that doesn’t matter. Pasta’s all about the taste.” Keeping one eye on her, I turn my attention to the rest of the dough and set about rolling it as flat as possible. This isn’t the first time we’ve made pasta together but it is the first time I’ve let her take charge.

As much charge as a six-year-old can take.

“Did you do this when you were my age?” Dariya’s little fists thump lightly into her dough, and she leans so far forward that I’m no longer confident the dough is free from hair.

“A little older,” I explain. “My mother taught me. We used to cook together all the time when I was small. We’d make all kinds of things, but my favorite thing to make was definitely strawberry tarts.”

“Oh, can we make those?” Dariya’s head snaps up and I chuckle softly, spotting the flour dotting her apple cheeks.

Abandoning my dough briefly, I lean down to her level—which is around elbow height since she’s standing on her stool—and wipe the flour away.

“Of course.” Warmth blooms through my chest, matching the closeness of the oven-warmed air around us, and for a single moment, I forget.

I forget why I’m here.

I forget that Dariya is not actually my child and that life isn’t as simple as baking sweet treats and eating flour.

Reality returns quickly when the swinging door to the kitchen creaks into life, screaming as the bottom hinge complains loudly despite multiple attempts to fix it.

In walks Daniil Drugov, one of the most attractive men I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, and Dariya’s bodyguard.

Dariya waves at him with one dough-sticky fist. Daniil slowly lifts one hand and waggles his fingers back at her, then he retakes his position by the large bay window overlooking the garden and becomes the same statue he was before he left for the bathroom.

The late afternoon sun bounces off his skin, making it look infinitely more golden and darker than normal. A slicked-back mop of dark hair sits on the top of his head, bleeding into a faded side shave that seamlessly blends into the dark sunglasses hiding his honey-brown eyes. I’ve seen them only a couple of times as he wears those sunglasses as religiously as anyone else wears clothes.

Who even wears sunglasses inside anyway?

Hot Russian bodyguards, apparently.

His brow permanently bunches above his sunglasses; either he’s always annoyed, or he needs prescription sunglasses. The dusting of hair kissing his upper lip adds a shadow of definition to his pouty lips, and two silver studs glint in the sunlight from his left ear.

He’s the only guard around here who doesn’t dress in the same charcoal gray shirt and black suit. Daniil seems to favor blue and he’s never in a shirt. Always a blue vest with golden buttons and a dark blue suit jacket with a silver pin resting on the left lapel. The swirling dark ink of tattoos I only dream of seeing peek out from his wrists and chest, giving me a teaser of the gorgeous body that must exist underneath that clothing.

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