Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“You’re right. I’m a bit of a luddite,” I say. “That’s probably why city life holds so little appeal for me, and why I found your job posting so intriguing. Living out here”—I motion at the gorgeous views outside—“and tutoring your son is the kind of job I’ve always wanted, and if you hire me, I will dedicate myself to it completely.”
A slow, dark smile curves his lips. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” I hold his gaze, even as my breath turns shallow and prickles of heat run over my skin. I really don’t get my reaction to this man, don’t understand how I can find him so magnetic even as he sets off all kinds of alarms in my mind. Paranoia or not, my instincts are screaming that he’s dangerous, yet my finger itches to reach out and trace the clearly defined edges of his full, soft-looking lips. Swallowing, I wrench my thoughts away from that treacherous territory and say with as much earnestness as I can manage, “I’ll be the most perfect tutor you can imagine.”
He regards me without blinking, the silence stretching into several long seconds, and just when I feel like my nerves might snap like an overextended rubber band, he stands up and says, “Follow me.”
* * *
He leads me out of the office and down a long hallway until we reach another closed door. This one must not have any biometric security, since he just knocks on the door and, without waiting for an answer, goes in.
Inside, another floor-to-ceiling window provides more breathtaking views. However, there’s nothing sleek and modern about this room. Instead, it looks like the aftermath of a toy factory explosion. Colorful chaos is everywhere I look, with piles of toys, children’s books, and LEGO pieces scattered all over the floor, and a child-sized bed covered by a Superman-themed sheet in the corner. The Superman-themed pillows and blanket from the bed are piled high in another corner, and it’s not until my host says in a commanding tone, “Slava!” that I realize there’s a little boy building a LEGO castle next to that pile.
At his father’s voice, the boy’s head jerks up, revealing a pair of huge amber-green eyes—the same mesmerizing eyes the man next to me possesses. In general, the boy is Nikolai in miniature, his black hair falling around his ears in a straight, glossy curtain and his child-round face already showing a hint of those striking cheekbones. Even the mouth is the same, lacking only the cynical, knowing curve of his father’s lips.
“Slava, idi syuda,” Nikolai orders, and the boy gets up and cautiously approaches us. As he stops in front of us, I notice he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of Spider-Man on the front.
Looking down at his son, Nikolai starts speaking to him in rapid-fire Russian. I have no idea what he’s saying, but it must have something to do with me because the boy keeps glancing at me, his expression both curious and fearful.
As soon as Nikolai is done speaking, I smile at the child and kneel on the floor, so we’re on the same eye level. “Hi, Slava,” I say gently. “I’m Chloe. It’s nice to meet you.”
The boy looks at me blankly.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Nikolai says, his voice hard. “Alina and I have tried to teach him, but he knows we speak Russian, and he refuses to learn it from us. So that would be your job: teaching him English, along with anything else a child his age should know.”
“I see.” I keep my gaze on the boy, smiling at him warmly even as more alarms go off in my mind. There’s something odd in the way Nikolai talks to and about the child. It’s as if his son is a stranger to him. And if Alina—who I assume is his wife and the mother of the child—knows English as well as my host, why doesn’t Slava speak at least a few words? Why would he refuse to learn the language from his parents?
In general, why doesn’t Nikolai pick up the boy and hug him? Or playfully ruffle his hair?
Where’s the warm ease with which parents usually communicate with their children?
“Slava,” I say to the boy softly, “I’m Chloe.” I point at myself. “Chloe.”
He regards me with his father’s unblinking stare for several long moments. Then his mouth moves, shaping the syllables. “Klo-ee.”
I beam at him. “That’s right. Chloe.” I tap my chest. “And you’re Slava.” I point at him. “Miroslav, right?”
He nods solemnly. “Slava.”
“Do you like comic books, Slava?” I gently touch the picture on his T-shirt. “This is Spider-Man, isn’t it?”
His eyes brighten. “Da, Spider-Man.” He pronounces it with a Russian accent. “Ti znayesh o nyom?”
I glance up at Nikolai, only to find him watching me with a dark, indecipherable expression. A tingle of unwelcome awareness zips down my spine, my breath hitching at a sudden feeling of vulnerability. On my knees is not where I want to be with this man.