Page 2 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

A body I’ve seen in my dreams.

I try not to look at him.

In the six months I’ve been working here, I’ve tried my hardest not to stare at him, but it’s almost impossible. He’s a work of art demanding my attention. Time and time again, I find my eyes drawn back to him like there’s a pull I’m not in control of, or I look for excuses to speak to him so that I can bask in his presence.

Giddiness sweeps through me like I’m a teenager, so I shove my hands back into the pasta dough and focus on kneading like my life depends on it.

“Naomi!” Dariya exclaims, catching my attention. “Why have you gone all red?”

The warmth in my cheeks reaches molten levels and I laugh tightly, then scoop up my dough and turn my back on Daniil to focus on the pasta press. “It’s all this kneading. It really works up a sweat.”

The softest of snorts from Daniil reaches my ears—which I’m pretty sure isn’t my imagination—and a prickling hot sweat stabs down my spine.

Oh, the innocence of children.

I keep my attention on the pasta press and try to ignore him as I feed the dough in one end and catch the smooth sheets out of the other. If Daniil were my only problem, maybe it wouldn’t be so embarrassing to let my mind run, but between him and my boss, Fyodor Dunayevsky, this house has more than its fair share of attractive men.

Clearly, the world of professional fixers attracts the brooding, muscular types.

Nothing makes me happier while simultaneously making me feel like a frumpy lump that stands no chance.

It’s not a good idea to date your boss anyway. I’ll have to settle for lusting over him—both of them—in the quiet of my room.

By the time the sun sets and dark sky rolls past the window, the pasta is rolled and it’s cutting time. Dariya takes great joy in selecting the bow cutter. Between the two of us, it doesn’t take long to stab out too many pasta pieces to count under the watchful eye of Daniil, who hasn’t moved an inch since he came back.

Each movement of cutting the dough and adding a little twist in the middle highlights the ache throbbing across my shoulders and upper arms. No matter how many times I do this, I can’t escape the pasta aches. Dariya seems to be in the same boat as her enthusiasm for twisting pasta shapes starts to dwindle. I just need to keep her attention until the pasta is ready to cook.

“So,” I say, nudging her gently. “Do you know what kind of sauce you want to eat these with?”

Dariya shakes her head and pouts. “Can I have both sauces?”

“White and red? I’m not so sure that would taste so good.”

“My arms hurt,” she whines and both hands flop to her sides. The tell-tale signs of an impending tantrum from hunger and tiredness hang in the air, so I change tactics.

“Y’know, Daniil,” I say, and like always my heart lurches faintly just saying his name. “You’re the one with all the muscles. Maybe you should be over here twisting the pasta instead of Dariya.”

Daniil doesn’t move. He doesn’t even make a noise, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect he’d fallen asleep and was hiding it behind those dark sunglasses.

Thankfully, Dariya catches on and she steps down from her stool. Daniil’s stoic aura lasts until Dariya reaches him and presses her flour-stained hands all over his pristine vest. Only then do those flat, pressed lips pull into a small smile. My heart skips a beat.

No one can resist Dariya. She’s too precious.

“Come and help us,” she demands, tugging at the hem of his vest. Daniil finally moves, dropping one large hand down onto her head and he lightly ruffles her hair.

“I’m no cook,” Daniil says.

A shudder of delight moves through my body at the raspy tones of his voice. I’m unsure if it’s the raspiness or the undertones of his Russian accent that I enjoy, but he speaks so rarely that I just can’t get over how good his voice sounds. Despite that enjoyment, I keep my head down and work my way through the last few pasta twirls.

“Please,” Dariya whines, batting his hand away. “My arms are tired and Naomi is right. You have all the muscles.”

“Oh, Naomi is right, is she?”

The way his voice slows when he says my name, like it’s some delicacy he wants to savor the taste of, is enough to make me dizzy. Blinking hard, I finish the last few pieces of pasta with less-than-perfect twists, then quickly dust off my hands on the towel.

“Daniil is too busy holding up the wall to help us,” I say, flashing my strongest smile when I finally lift my head. It’s impossible to tell where Daniil is looking through those glasses. I can pretend his eyes are roaming over my curvy body with the same appreciation that licks around his words, but that toes a dangerous line between fantasy and reality. Reaching the two of them, my lungs fill with the spicy-sweet scent of his aftershave as I scoop Dariya up into my arms.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up so we can eat.”

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