Page 1 of A Nanny For The Bratva Boss
One
MAYA
I’m pathetic. Like, truly, deeply,embarrassinglypathetic.
It’s six-thirty in the morning, I’m standing in the front yard of my best friend’s pool house wearing shorts that show half my ass and a tank top with no bra, holding a watering can I filled five minutes ago, pretending to care about her flowers.
I don’t give a single fuck about these flowers.
What Idogive a fuck about is the six-foot-four wall of solid muscle that’s about to jog past this gate in exactly three minutes.
Because Mikhail Maksimov runs every morning at six-thirty-three. On the dot. Shirtless. Abs glistening with sweat, tattoos on full display, that hard jaw clenched, those ice-blue eyes focused straight ahead like he’s running toward a kill.
And I’m out here like some thirsty groupie, waiting.
God, Maya. Get it together.
I adjust my bonnet and pretend to inspect a rosebush that’s probably dead. I don’t know. I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever owned. But Ana won’t be back from her honeymoon for another week, so she’ll never know I’ve been using her garden as a propin my sad one-woman show titled“How to Embarrass Yourself in Front of Your Hot Neighbor.”
The sound of footsteps hits the pavement.
My heart kicks into overdrive.
Here he is.
I glance up, trying to look casual and/or surprised. Like I justhappenedto be out here watering plants at the crack-ass of dawn.
Mikhail rounds the corner, and sweet baby Jesus, it should be illegal to look like that.
He’s all brutal lines and raw power. Broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world, a chest carved from stone, arms thick with muscle and ink. His dark hair is damp with sweat, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes… Yeah, they don’t even flick my way.
He runs past me like I’m invisible.
Nope. Not today.
I’ve been watching this man for three weeks. Three weeks of stolen glances, late-night fantasies, and biting my lip every time he walks out on his terrace in nothing but low-slung lounge pants, coffee in hand, looking like he walked straight out of the Bratva edition of GQ, who doesn’t know how to smile.
Three weeks, and he’s never once acknowledged my existence. And now I’m done with this shit.
“Good morning!” I call out, my voice too bright, too loud.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.
Just keeps running, his long, thick legs eating up the pavement, his breathing steady and controlled.
Are you fucking kidding me?
“Hey!” I try again, stepping closer to the gate. “Beautiful day, huh?”
Nothing. Not a grunt. Not a glance. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.
He just runs right past me like I’m part of the scenery.
My cheeks burn.
Why is that hot?
It shouldn’t be hot. It should be rude. Infuriating. A clear sign that I need to abandon this ridiculous crush and focus on literally anything else. Like finding a job, or figuring out how to afford my own place instead of mooching off Ana’s charity.
