Page 60 of The Nanny Goal

But then they cut back to the studio talking heads, and Inessa’s brief happiness bubble bursts.

“Papa?”

“He won his game,” I say softly.

She doesn’t care. She climbs off the couch and wobbles to the front door. “Papa?”

I follow her, offering every distraction I can think of. When I run out of ideas, I pick her up and carry her upstairs, clicking the gate shut at the top of the stairs. One way or another, we’re doing bedtime again.

Time slows to a crawl. An hour passes, and I’m lying on the floor of Inessa’s room, pretending to sleep, while she hiccups in her bed and tells me in broken English that she’s never going to be tired and I need to wake up.

On the floor between us, my phone lights up. One of Alexei’s stupid cartoon modified faces flashes on the screen. I didn’t even realize we’d added that to his profile. Maybe my phone picked it automatically. Technology is too smart these days.

“Papa,” Inessa says between hiccupping tears.

I answer the call and try to put on a brave face, but there’s no hiding the fact that we’re both crying.

“What’s wrong?” Alexei asks.

My voice cracks. “Bedtime broke us a little.”

“Oh no,” he says. His gaze goes from me to Inessa, and he murmurs something in Russian.

Her lower lip gets fatter, jutting out more.

“What a long day for you,” he says, and it takes me a second to realize he’s looking at me again.

“I’m sorry.” Wet tears track down my cheeks.

“What are you sorry for? We have difficult bedtime sometimes. It happens.” He says something in Russian next, then nods along with Inessa. “Take her to my bedroom. I think she will fall asleep while we talk if you lay down with her there.”

“Your room?” My eyes go wide.

He shrugs. “It won’t bite, Emery. And it is late.”

Inessa climbs off my lap and tugs at my hand.

Sighing, I follow her, willing to try anything right now.

His bedroom is dark, so Inessa stops in the doorway—which means I stop in the doorway, and am immediately hit by the subtle but unmistakable scent of two years ago.

A vicious ache sears through my chest. The ache of what ifs, of what could have been.

“Light switch is to the left,” Alexei says through the phone, misreading the reason for my extended pause. “It’s on a dimmer.”

I give my phone to Inessa, grateful for the excuse to not be holding Alexei in my hand right now, and turn on the overhead light. As promised, it’s set to a very low level, but it’s enough for Inessa to see her way to her dad’s bed.

She throws my phone up onto it, then climbs up like a monkey, wedging her sleeper-clad foot in between the frame and the mattress for leverage and hauling herself up with two determined fists on the fitted sheet.

A duvet is shoved to the foot of the bed, and the pillows are in disarray, but Inessa doesn’t care. She grabs the phone and climbs right up to the pillows, making herself at home.

“Sorry I didn’t make the bed this morning,” he says.

I’m guessing that’s to me.

I sit gingerly on the side of the bed.

It’s anicemattress. Extra thick, and the sheets feel clean and still smell like the laundry.

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