Page 12

CHAPTER 11

ALEXEI

I’m on edge after I manage to extricate myself from that conversation.

My parents taught me to always see guests out, to make small talk. That did not prepare me to navigate Emery’s parents blindsiding me with their doubts about her life choices.

I return to the living room. Emery is sitting on the floor now, and Inessa is in the chair beside her, clutching what I assume is Emery’s phone.

Phones are Inessa’s most prized possessions when she can get her hands on one, and they’re giggling together.

I frown, trying to process what the Grangers said about their daughter.

She doesn’t seem lost to me, but I don’t actually know her.

“Mr. Artyomov—” The nanny rises to her feet, her gaze cutting sharply to the phone in Inessa’s hand.

“Thank you for coming,” I say in Russian. “I will contact you soon.”

There’s the briefest hesitation, as if she’s considering saying something else, but she thinks better of it and nods.

Unlike with the Grangers, I don’t step outside with Ms. Petrova. I see her to the door, then close it firmly.

I don’t remember the last time I felt this tired. Maybe in the first few months of Inessa’s life. That summer, after Tatyana left.

I quickly fire off a text message to dad, asking how he’s doing, and then pick up Emery’s backpack from where she left it by the door.

I get back to the living room just in time to see Inessa give Emery back her phone and point to the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” Emery asks. She sounds delighted to be able to solve that problem.

“We haven’t had lunch yet,” I explain. “But maybe I should give you a tour of the house first. There is a fully furnished suite in the basement that you can use. It has its own entrance. I thought my parents would want to use it, but they prefer to live upstairs with me and Inessa full-time.”

She doesn’t look at me when she responds. “That’s all right. I don’t mind getting right to work.”

My daughter’s head swivels back and forth between me and her new personal chef. “Ya khochu bliny.”

I groan at the specificity of the request. “Inessa.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts.

I count backwards from five and decide at three that it’s not worth trying to be firm. I give Emery a strained look. “Can you make fluffy pancakes? I tried this morning but…”

Emery smiles down at my daughter. “I can make you the best pancakes you’ve ever had.”

“Boo berries?” Inessa adds in a whisper.

“You bet, baby girl. Absolutely with blueberries.”

They go ahead of me, flowing past me like I’m an ornamental statute, irrelevant to the moment.

Which I am.

The only reason Emery is here is that she’s doing a favour for my family, for my daughter and my mother, because they are innocent in the mess I made two years ago when I left her hotel room so quickly.

And then I made it so much worse by not reaching out soon enough to explain what happened…

Because by the time I did, it was too late. She’d blocked me and moved on with my life.

I had to spend the next year listening to her brother update me on her new adventures and her new dating life.

“Hard to see your baby sister grow up suddenly, man. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but she’s got a new boyfriend or girlfriend every single week it seems. Definitely testing my parents’ limits.”

It made me burn with jealousy. And if she hadn’t blocked me, I would have thought that hurting me was the point.

But she went out of her way to make sure I couldn’t see it.

I couldn’t forget the taste of her, and she wanted nothing to do with me at all.

And now here she is. In my house, in my kitchen. About to make my daughter pancakes, because Papa doesn’t know how to do that, and it’s a lot to process. Really fucking hard.

For two years, I wondered what it would be like to see Emery again.

I knew it would be hard. Complicated, messy. I expected old wounds to re-open in one way or another.

Never in a million imaginings did I imagine being instantly passed over for my daughter. This makes it all easier, I suppose.

And it’s nice to see Inessa happy.

But there’s something about seeing their heads bent together conspiratorially that feels as if I’ve been hit in the chest with a cleaver.

Inessa’s mother will never make her pancakes. I’m not sure if she’ll ever want to buy her daughter pancakes.

Over the last two years, I’ve made my peace about Tatyana’s choice to give me a child, but not participate in the raising of her. We were young, and family life in Calgary was never going to be right for her. Hamilton even less so.

I can’t imagine what she would have done when I was traded if we still lived together. Had a tantrum, probably.

As it was, when I informed her that we were moving closer to the east coast, and would be a short flight from New York City, she told me that she looked forward to taking Inessa shopping there “when the girl is old enough.” Like it was just a given that, after eight or ten or fifteen years of abandonment, any girl would want to have a big city shopping spree with her absentee jet-setting birth mother.

“Is this your pantry?” Emery’s question pulls me out of my thoughts.

I put her backpack by the door that goes down to the basement and nod. “My mother keeps everything very organized.”

“I can see that.” She puts a container of flour on the counter, then opens the fridge, revealing my mother’s effort. It’s always neatly organized and well-stocked, through no work on my part, but I like seeing the impressed look on Emery’s face all the same.

She adds blueberries, eggs, and milk to supplies she’s going to use, then holds up a container of cottage cheese. “Do you want protein pancakes?”

I want you to look at me .

Because she hasn’t yet.

Inessa tries to pull the bag of flour off the counter, so I scoop her up and put her on my hip. “Do you like them?”

Emery rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t make them if I didn’t like them.”

“Then yeah, I’d like to try them.” I shift closer so I can grab the blueberries, planning to distract Inessa.

Emery’s gaze follows my hand.

“Toddler distraction device,” I explain.

“Ah.”

“What did you think of Ms. Petrova?”

Instead of answering me, Emery gestures at the cabinets. “Where are your mixing bowls?”

“I’m…” I frown. “I’m not sure.” I ask Inessa in Russian if she knows where Baba keeps the big silver bowls.

“Down,” she says in English, looking at Emery.

“Are you a kitchen expert?” Our new chef gestures at the lower cabinets. “Then show me where it is, baby girl.”

Inessa wriggles her legs until I set her down, and then she pulls open every door, giggling, until she finds the right bowls. “This,” she says, shoving it at Emery.

“Gentle,” I caution my daughter, then turn my attention back to our guest. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because it’s not my place. I’m here to help for a few days, and then?—”

My phone rings, cutting Emery off. We both look at the screen, and my heart leaps into my throat when I see it is the hospital.

I grab it. “Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Artyomov?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a cardiology resident on your mother’s team and…” I listen numbly as the doctor explains about a procedure they’re going to do this afternoon.

“I can be there in twenty minutes,” I manage to say. There’s a click, the call disconnects, and then I drag my attention back to Emery, who is staring at me with wide eyes. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

“God, no, don’t be sorry, of course. It’s okay.” She gestures to Inessa. “Do you want her to be close by at the hospital? I can come with you and take her for a walk.”

I bury my face in my hands. It’s so hard to think right now.

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

“Papa?” Inessa bumps into my leg. “Papa up.”

Hot tears spring to my eyes— fuck —and Inessa repeats my name again, this time with a warble in her voice. “Papa?”

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Emery takes a deep, audible breath, and even with my eyes closed, I can see her picking Inessa up, calmly covering my daughter’s hands as she reaches for me.

Waiting.

Soothing.

I haven’t even given her a tour of the fucking house yet. Haven’t said I’m sorry yet. Haven’t addressed the elephant in the room, and now that’s just not…I can’t…

I feel like a piece of shit, falling apart in front of her.

“We’re going to stay here and make pancakes,” she says softly. Talking to Inessa, but also to me. “Your dad has to go to the hospital for the afternoon. Can you show me your bedroom after lunch, and maybe teach me how you have a nap?”

“No nap.”

“But what if I need a nap?”

“Can-cakes.”

“You’re right. That’s good prioritization. Can-cakes first, then Emery needs a nap.”

I wipe my eyes and look sideways.

She’s wrapped her arms around my daughter, holding her safe and secure, and carrying on a patient, amused one-sided conversation. She shines so fucking bright, like high noon on the warmest summer day.

I don’t deserve her kindness.

But Inessa does, and Emery clearly gets that distinction.

“Thank you,” I say roughly. “I’ll make this up to you.”

She doesn’t look at me as she shrugs.

But her smile slips just a little, and I’m sharply reminded that the time to make anything up to her was two years ago.

And now it’s too late.