Amalie isn’t the first nanny I’ve hired. None of the others lasted, always getting frustrated with Sasha and the walls he’d built around himself since losing his mother.
I avoid responding, instead changing the subject. “Bigger things to worry about right now.”
“Perhaps. But you’re still noticing all the same.”
“I notice everything.”
“Indeed you do. But not everyone distracts you.”
I grit my teeth, shooting him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
He holds up his hands. “Observation, not judgement.”
I say nothing, turning my attention back to the scene outside. I watch as Amalie moves to the edge of the terrace and scoops a handful of snow, packing it gently between her mittens before giving it to Sasha. She’s teaching him to paint with it as a texture, smearing it gently onto the page, letting it melt into the colors.
She is an unexpected softness in my world, which is otherwise hard as granite.
And she’s dangerous. But in a completely different way than Nikolai Garin.
Andrei clears his throat. “Blair texted. Said the sooner you can offer the investors assurances, the better.”
“I’ll speak to him when I’m ready.”
“I can see his point. No one wants to have reasons to second-guess themselves on the verge of a deal like this. And Garin either thinks you won’t make it to the finish line, or he’s actively planning for you not to. Either way, it’s a problem.”
“I know. His confidence today was not all a show.”
“Yes. It bothered me.”
It bothered me too. Garin is a snake—patient, venomous, and always smiling when he strikes.
My pulse slows at the sight of Amalie with Sasha, easing me in a way that few things do.
All the same, I know I should not be looking at her like this.
And yet, I cannot help it.
Later, after Sasha’s lesson and lunch, I find Amalie washing dishes in the small utility sink in the art room. Her sleeves are rolled to her elbows, her hair still a bit mussed from her hat.
“Painting outside,” I say from the door. “In the middle of winter.”
She startles just a bit, then glances over her shoulder. “Technically, it’s nearly the end of winter. Almost spring.”
I chuckle.
She turns back to the water, her hands busy under the stream. I can’t tell if she’s happy to see me or not.
“We weren’t outside that long. Promise. I just wanted him to feel it. The snow, the winter air, the way sunlight reflects off fresh powder. You can’t paint something honestly if you don’t feel it.”
I lean against the door frame. “Feel the cold?”
“Feel the reality of it, the inspiration.” She turns off the water and faces me, drying her hands on a nearby towel. “Look, kids are literal. They draw what they see. But real artists draw what they feel. And Sasha’s got that spark. He’s going to remember the details—the cold, the way the snow slid down the paper. But the spark needs to be fed, nurtured.”
My face remains impassive, not betraying the fact that she’s speaking about my boy in precisely the way I’ve always hoped a nanny would but never has.
“And,” she adds, lifting a brow, “we made sure to have hot chocolate after.”
I chuckle, genuinely amused. “Good to know he’s being taken care of.”
