Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I trust her.
With everything.
She’s the only family I have.
And you know…the more I think about it…the reason I can’t find my employment stuff with Igor is probably something really basic like not wanting a traceable trail for the media elves to take advantage of in some way. Over the course of my career, they’ve definitely tried. Signing NDAs is so second nature that part of me just assumes that happened here – after all he is a famous athlete – and I just need them to make me another copy of the document.
Hopefully we can get that done before his first road game tomorrow.
It’s on my ever-growing list of things to ask for along with an assignment description.
Usually, I know exactly what I’ve been hired to do.
Pickups and drops off.
Extracurricular activities.
Meals.
Laundry.
Lessons.
Playdates.
What hours are “on the clock” and what hours are on my own.
I’ve never worked for a hockey player before, so I’m not entirely sure what sort of schedule I’ll be on; however, if I had to venture a guess – an action I’ve been doing far too much lately – I’d say something similar to that of a doctor. An always on call, prepared to do it all, sort of setup.
Honestly?
I tend to hate gigs like that.
Becoming so implanted in a family’s life only to then tear yourself out of it is extremely painful for them, especially the children. Adults – in most cases – have a better ability to understand, process, and move on, but kids?
That shit can cut so deep it restructures the very foundation of who they are.
I’d know.
It happened to me.
It’s why I work so hard to make my parting seamless and less intrusive to their day to day.
Igor slams his bent elbow on the dark gray kitchen table and releases a grunt of frustration in my direction. “Why the f-”
“Fudge,” I insert an alternative to what has to be his favorite word at the same time I deliver a scolding stare.
“Why the fudgskie,” he huffs in further annoyance, “are we doing an in-season activity – making yogurt shaped ghosts – but watching off-season movies?”
Giving my food creation raisin eyes is accompanied by my argument, “The Nightmare Before Christmas counts as in season for both Halloween and Christmas.”
“Should it though?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine. You wanna count that goal, tell the zebras to count it.”
Smiling over the strange term for referees mindlessly occurs.
“But how do you explain the movie we watched yesterday?” Meeting his mirth-filled glare immediately gets me giggling. “The Muppet Christmas Carol is without question a Christmas movie.”
“It has ghosts.”
“Ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future!”
“Still ghosts.” The playful shoulder shrug seems to infuriate him more. “Still counts as in-season.”
“That’s a garbage goal,” Igor insists, poorly hiding his laugh. “And you know that’s a garbage goal.” He sucks the yogurt off the edge of his thumb on another headshake. “Don’t be a pigeon. Be an effing beauty like you are.”
Heat unexpectedly flushes my cheeks over the compliment.
Ugh.
I know it’s not about looks but about skill and for some goddamn reason I find that even more flattering than if he were just commenting about my looks.
Not that he does that.
Not that I would hate for him to do that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Bella now staring contemplatively at the drop of yogurt she’s gotten on her thumb. Knowing better than to bring direct attention to it or her behavior during our allotted food exploration activity – which differs from snack time – I simply continue to demonstrate how the item in question isn’t anything to be frightened of whether it’s on her finger or face or tongue.
Using the tip of my index finger, I scoop up a dollop of yogurt and plop a dot on Igor’s nose. “And now you’re an effing beauty.”
Bella’s giggles catch our attention causing us to relocate our gazes towards her.
I casually suck the remains off my finger before pointing in my employer’s direction. “Isn’t Daddy so pretty like this?”
She leans forward in her seat and unleashes even louder laughs.
“What about like this?!” Gently grabbing his light stubble beard covered face is followed by turning it my direction. The low, hungry groan that hits my ears is not only hard to deny, it has my jean covered thighs needily clamping together. I dip my free index finger into the yogurt and use the substance like paint once more to add three lines along his cheeks on each side. Afterward, I purposely suck off the remains, wanting Bella to see the action again, in hopes that she’ll try it herself; however, the seemingly innocent movement summons a second grumble out of the man beside me. One that’s much deeper and darker and causes my expression to be released in an airier tone than it has any right to be, “Voilà!”
Igor takes one, long lick of his lips prior to turning towards his daughter and playfully echoing, “Khoroshiy!”