Page 88 of The Nanny Goal

“I should apologize,” I start to say, then stop.

She goes still, her head tipping to the side. Not quite looking at me, but listening.

I laugh a little, under my breath. “Fuck, I have so much to apologize for, Emery. But also, dinner was…” I trail off, searching for the right word. “Really fucking good.”

Her expression softens just a touch.

And yes, I need to apologize again and again and again, but I probably need to praise her even more. I lean into that, liking the way it lifts her chin. “You’re a spectacular cook. As good a chef as you are a hockey player.”

Her laugh comes quiet and unexpected, like I caught her off guard. And now we’re both smiling, at least a little.

“It wasn’t fancy,” she says.

“That’s not what I said. I know you like fancy food. I wish we had more time for you to introduce me to more of it. But you make regular food special. With the little flower garnishes and the sauces and secret techniques and devices and—” I drag in a breath because my chest is tight. “I see how fucking good at it you are. I want you to know that.”

She finally looks at me.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “You don’t have to do any of this. So it means a lot that you do.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. Her eyes flick toward the living room, where Inessa is now lying flat on her back.

“I’m going to get her to bed,” I say after a moment, pushing away from the counter. “But when I get back down here, I want to see you sitting in the living room, scrolling your phone. Leave the rest of the clean-up for me.”

“It’s fine.”

“Emery. Go sit. You’ve done more than enough. I’ll clean.”

She holds my gaze, and I think she’s going to argue again, but then she shrugs. “Okay. That’s fair.”

I exhale and nod. “Inessa, say good night to Emery.”

“Night night,” my daughter says, waving as I pick her up. Her gaze stays locked on our favourite person as I carry her out of the room, and she whines a bit when we start to climb the stairs.

“I know, little one,” I say in Russian. I’d like Emery to come upstairs with us, too, but that would be asking even more labour from someone who has given us enough already.

Despite the whining, Inessa brushes her teeth almost entirely by herself, then picks out her own pyjamas. She’s rubbing her eyes by the time I get her tucked in, and as soon as I start to read her a story in English, she rolls onto her side and falls asleep.

I turn her lamp down and put the book away, my pulse picking up.

There are no clattering kitchen noises from downstairs, so Emery has followed my stern instructions and taken a break. Good. A muscle in my jaw ticks at the thought of finding her cozy on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her.

I’d be lying to myself if I pretended that she isn’t the reason I’m grabbing the baby monitor and heading for the stairs.

Yes, I want to carry some of the load tonight. She cooked. I can clean.

But I want to spend time with her, too.

I want— I need to heal some of the wounds that keep getting picked at.

In the living room, I see that Emery has turned on the TV and found a game that one of her brothers is playing in—Utah is at Montreal.

“What’s the score?”

“Tied at one, top of the second.”

I set the baby monitor on the counter and tackle the remaining dishes. I get everything clean and put away, then wipe down the counters.

By the time I join her on the couch, the second period is over and she’s muted the talking heads on the panel in the intermission.

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