Page 2 of A Nanny For The Bratva Boss
But noooo. My traitorous body decides that his complete and utter indifference is somehow the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me.What is wrong with me?
I watch him disappear around the corner, my pulse still racing, my thighs pressed together like that’s going to help with the ache building between them. Newsflash: it doesn’t.
I let out a long breath and look down at the watering can in my hand.
“Well,” I mutter to the half-dead rosebush. “That went great.”
I walk back to the pool house, mentally kicking myself.
This is what my life has become. Twenty-three years old, broke as hell, living in my best friend’s pool house like some kind of charity case, and spending my mornings lusting after a man who doesn’t even know I exist.
A man who’s probably dangerous.
Because, let’s be real, Mikhail Maksimov isn’t just some rich guy living in a gated community. He’sBratva. Russian mafia. I know because Ana’s husband, Dmitry, is part of the same world, and when I moved here, she sat me down and gave me the rundown.
“Mikhail’s family, but he’s… different. He’s quiet, keeps to himself. Don’t bother him, and he won’t… murder you?”She didn’t say“stay away fromhim” exactly, but the message was clear.
And yet here I am, bothering him. Or trying to, anyway.
I drop the watering can by the door and flop on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
This crush is going to kill me. Or maybe it’ll just die a slow, humiliating death on its own when I finally accept that Mikhail Maksimov will never look at me twice. Either way, I need to get a grip.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction.
Ana:How’s the house? Missing you! Paris isgorgeous,but can’t wait to come home & hang. Have you seen you-know-who? ??
I groan and type back.
Me:If by “seen” you mean making a fool of myself, then yes.
Ana:Babe. Stop torturing yourself. He’s not even your type.
Me:You’re right. I prefer men who acknowledge my existence.
Ana:LOL.Exactly. Now go do something productive. Apply for jobs. Read a book. Touch grass. Anything but crush on the grumpy Russian.
I toss my phone aside and pull a throw pillow over my face.
She’s right. I know she’s right.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is him. His massive shoulders. That square, stubbled jaw. His huge hands that look like they could break bones or hold me down, whichever works for him…God.
I squeeze my thighs together again and let out a frustrated groan.
This is ridiculous. Mikhail Maksimov doesn’t want me. And I need to stop wanting him.
But by eight a.m., I’m perched on the little bench near the shared wall between our properties, with a book in hand, pretending to read.
But I’m not reading at all. I’m waiting.
Because every morning after his run, Mikhail comes out on his terrace with a cup of coffee. And every morning, I get a front-row seat to the show.
The wall between us is just low enough that if I stand on my tiptoes. Or, you know, sit on this conveniently placed bench… I can see right over. And what a view…
He steps outside, coffee mug in hand, wearing nothing but a pair of black lounge pants that sit dangerously low on his hips.
My mouth goes dry.
