Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

What are we doing here on this planet? Why am I in Brooklyn? Am I doing anything of worth? What’s the point?

Like the Hamlet of Brighton Beach, Ilya Rozanov asked himself those questions most days he was at work. To be, or not to be, that was the question.

He watched a man walk in front of the store with his cream colored terrier. The dog’s fur was dull and dirty, almost gray. Its scrawny legs flailed with each step as if the ground was on fire due to little pink rain boots attached to its paws.

“Come on,” the man barked, tugging the leash. His voice was muffled through the bulletproof glass of the shop but his harshness still could be heard. “Shit already, would you?”

The dog squatted down directly in front of the store. His owner didn’t even try to get him to use one of the barren tree pits Ilya tried to keep tidy. Why? He could not tell you. He would say it was due to his mother always instilling in him to do his best, no matter the task. He doubted she would encourage him to use that commitment when it came to street garbage and dog shit but, then again, she was someone who made a game out of picking up litter when they went out for walks. Maybe that was it.

Or maybe it was his father constantly berating him for being lazy. Being the best at keeping seven squares of sidewalk clean really proved his father wrong.

Either way, both were gone. He had no one left to try to impress.

Ilya watched the man look side to side, guilt written all over his pocked face. The man hissed, “Come on, move,” to the dog and started walking. Ilya sighed and bent to rest his forehead on the counter. If he had a nickel for every time he saw a dog owner do the telltale sign that they either forgot to bring a bag or thought cleaning up after their own pet did not apply to them. He lifted his head and walked through the shop. He checked his keys in his pocket and grabbed the hose from out front.

After his exciting morning cleaning the filthy sidewalk, helping a group of elementary schoolers cross the busy street, and dusting the shelves, he helped potential customers change their minds about selling to the shop.

“It was my grandfather's watch,” a middle-aged woman said sadly in Russian. “I took it to a jeweler who said it could be up to two hundred dollars to fix. That seems crazy to me.”

Ilya ducked down behind the glass counter and ran his fingers over a row of watches on blue velvet foam. He picked up a similar watch, popped the battery out, and put it in the customer’s dead watch. Ticking filled the quiet space, the arms jolting back to life.

“Oh!” she gasped, her hands flying to her face.

Ilya handed the watch over. “You just needed a new battery. Not two hundred dollars.”

“That’s it?” she said in English.

“That’s it,” he echoed.

Back to Russian, she gushed, “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!”

She threw her arms around his broad shoulders and squeezed him. He stiffly patted her back.

“You’re welcome.”

She leaned back and held out the watch. “Take your battery back.”

“It’s alright. We keep extras around. You keep it.”

Her face slackened in a shocked smile. “Thank you! What a sweet man you are!”

She hugged him again and he laughed softly.

“Have a nice day,” Ilya said.

“You too!” she said as she walked out of the shop.

And then he was alone. Alone with his plastic baggie of watch batteries. He replaced the battery in the watch, put the watch in the case, then picked up a bottle of glass cleaner to start wiping things down.

The bell above the door jingled seconds later. Ilya looked up from his work and saw a trio of men so incompetent that he was shocked they remembered to tie their shoes every day. Unfortunately, they were also the three men who ran the shop.

“Hello,” he said, returning to the electronics case.

“Ilya,” Mikhail, the shop owner, said with a friendly lilt and his arms open. “Take a break. Walk with us.”

Ilya studied him, his gaze sliding from his round, ruddy face to the equally ruddy face of his son, Stan. His son-in-law, Sven, did not speak Russian. The rest of the staff had to speak English whenever he was around.

“Okay,” Ilya said.

He followed them into the back office and sat in the seat across the desk. He watched Sven and Stan bicker over who got to sit more centered behind the desk until Mikhail smacked both of their hands away from his desk chair.

“Sit! For fuck’s sake,” Mikhail said to them, gesturing to some scattered folding chairs around a card table in the corner.

Sven looked at Ilya expectantly. “Well? Are you getting us chairs?”

Ilya blinked once, his stare unwavering. “Do I look like fucking Cinderella?”

Sven and Stan scoffed. Mikhail snorted then cleared his throat, amusement crinkling the weathered skin beside his eyes. They dragged folding chairs over. Finally, the trio was seated on one side of the dinged up desk.

The room went silent. The swaying lightbulb above them buzzed. The staggered sound of clothing thudding within twenty dryers at different times bled through the thin wall from the laundromat next door.

“Ilya,” Mikhail started, folding his hands on the desk. “You know I very much respect your father.”

“Respected,” Ilya corrected. “He is dead.”

“Yes. Sorry. Of course. Very sorry,” Mikhail blurted out, placing his hand over his heart. “I only mean that you are very good worker. Nice boy. Customers like you. Neighbors like you.”

“Okay,” Ilya said slower. “So…”

“So you’re fired,” Sven said with poorly contained glee.

“What?” Ilya asked. He was so good at keeping a hard outer shell that he was able to keep his voice even and unimpressed. Unshakeable.

“When we bring you on, we thought it would be more like you were muscle,” Mikhail said, flexing his arms and deepening his voice. “Big guy. Tough guy. Best fighter on ice.”

“I am no longer angry teenager fighting during hockey game. Who am I beating up? We are pawn shop. You cannot fight the customers.” Ilya leaned forward on his elbows, his pecs bulging against his black button-up shirt. His voice went even deeper, all without playing a character like Mikhail. “And are you saying I am not tough guy?”

The trio of men, all either much scrawnier or much older than the six foot two mountain of muscle in front of them, looked at each other.

“Look, Ilya. We all like you very much. You are swell guy!” Mikhail laughed with his palms out. “We just do not think this is best fit for you or us.”

“You left the store unattended,” Sven sniped. “Last week. Tuesday.”

Ilya looked at him, confused. “The door locked behind me. Like it always does. I had my keys.”

“But what if it didn’t?” Sven countered.

Ilya tilted his head towards Sven and asked Mikhail in Russian, “Is this guy for fucking real?”

“Hey, in English, dickhead,” Sven snapped.

“You were in newspaper, Ilya,” Mikhail said, sounding stressed. “The police ask you questions. We do not need any attention on the shop.”

“I cannot help if someone took photo while it happened,” Ilya said, still calm. “They did not even name me or the shop. And all the police ask was for me to confirm lady’s story. Nothing about shop.”

“The point is,” Mikhail said while squeezing his hands on the desk, “you did not prioritize the shop.”

Ilya laughed in disbelief, a huffed, barked sound. “Prioritize the shop which is front for poorly planned drug deals.”

Mikhail, Sven and Stan all said, “Ey,” in a variety of pitches and sat back in their seats with their hands out as if calming an animal.

Ilys asked, “What was I supposed to do? Let that piece of shit rob a little old lady? Crack her head on concrete like egg?”

“You are good guy, Ilya,” Mikhail said earnestly. “Too good for this place.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “This makes no sense. I am the only person who knows how to use a computer. I process payroll.” He looked at Stan. “I did your taxes.” His look at Sven was more a sneer. “I fixed your visa paperwork, you ungrateful fuck.” He gestured at Mikhail. “I help you set up 401k. You pay shit and I do not even have savings account but I help you with your retirement.”

Mikhail insisted, “And I am very thankful, Ilya! I am. This is not about that.”

Ilya could feel he was already checked out. He was gone. He would figure something out. He would survive. And he certainly had no love lost for working at the shop. Mikhail was an old friend of his father’s who helped him land in the US, offering an apartment above the shop (more like a glorified storage room) and a job. His association with his father alone should have been a red flag from the start. This was inconvenient but no great loss.

That said, the tiny, petty, stubborn part of himself that he worked so hard to rise above would not let this go.

Ilya stated, “You want me gone? Fine. My question is, who is doing all that when I am gone?”

The trio of men looked at each other. Carefully, and with as much casualness as he could manage, Mikhail said, “Stan has girlfriend good with numbers.”

Ilya stared at Mikhail then slowly dragged his gaze to Stan, who cleared his throat and kept his eyes on his dirty, jagged fingernails. Stan, who was the boss' married son. His wife Eva was always very nice when she stopped by to drop his lunch. She always had dinner ready for Ilya when he was roped into babysitting their kids. Ilya’s stomach turned.

“She was receptionist at hair salon,” Stan explained. “They have cash register. They fire her for no reason. She very good at job.”

Ilya nodded, his lips pursed forward as his silence dragged. All he said in reply was, “Ah.” The pieces lined up. He was being pushed out for being too nice to the elderly and too honest to work amidst low level criminals.

“She will need apartment—I mean, we will need apartment,” Stan bumbled. “For current staff, you see.”

“Yes, I see,” Ilya said. Current staff to continue having an affair. He nodded and put his hands on his thighs to stand. “I will be out by tomorrow.”

Mikhail shook his head. “No, no, Ilya, you can have whole week. Take time to find new—”

“I will be out by tomorrow,” Ilya repeated calmly but firmly. He nodded at Mikhail. “Thank you for the job and the housing.” He looked at Stan and said in Russian, “Your wife is too good for you, you piece of fucking shit.” His gaze landed on Sven and he blinked rapidly as if confused, humming and tapping his lips. “Ah, sorry,” he said with an extra heavy Russian accent. “My English not so good but I think the phrase is…Go fuck yourself.” He said that last part in perfect English with no hint of a Russian accent. He stood from the desk and walked to the stairs to his apartment. The trio sat in awkward silence.

He might have told Mikhail that he would be out the following day but once he started gathering his sparse belongings and made a couple of calls, sleeping one more night in that cramped shithole was not only unnecessary, it was revolting. He slung the strap of his duffel across his broad chest and grabbed his black hard shell carry-on suitcase. He looked around the room, the only light coming from a window with crooked bars on it. The walls always made him think of paper aged in tea. Brown. Not just dirty but filthy to the studs. He reached inside his shirt and thumbed his cross then turned. He did not look back.

He made it three blocks on his journey to the Q before his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, read the screen, and sighed. He answered the call but said nothing. A trio of voices crackled through in a mix of Russian and English.

Panicked, Mikhail asked, “Ilya, what is password? Payroll company say you change it from one on little blue paper?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Ilya said.

“Ilya! We need the password or they will not—”

Ilya ended the call and blocked his number. He had given the updated password. Whether Mikhail picked up on it was no longer his problem.

Shane Hollander had a nanny problem. He also had a deadline problem, but the nanny had to be dealt with first. His three children had returned to their prestigious private school. September in New York was busier than ever. Aged eleven, eight and seven, their lives were full of activities and appointments. Homework, ballet, French lessons, tutoring, music lessons, sports. He was so busy fine-tuning his latest musical while trying to finalize funding for the project that he could not keep up.

The life of a Broadway composer and producer had no guarantee of success but he had been incredibly lucky. His compositions were thought to have ushered in a new golden age of musical theatre. His songs were so popular, they dominated everything from the charts to elementary school choir concerts to audition repertoire. His award-winning musicals had been made into award-winning films and went on record-breaking national tours. His popularity with pop divas led to a lucrative film song composition career and a couple of Academy Awards, which then led to his slide into film scoring and eventually film producing. All of that work funneled into a diversified career and investment portfolio. It brought him to a financial place at only thirty years old that he never imagined would be possible as a little boy hungrily ripping through John Thompson’s piano course books.

He and his three children lived in one of the most beautiful homes in the city. Full of pre-war charm with modern luxury, it had been in his family for generations. He lived a life that one could only dream of. None of that mattered when he was drowning in both his personal and professional life. He was a perfectionist with a thirst for success. Being bad at anything did not bode well for him.

He was on the hunt for a full-time, live-in nanny, someone to be with the children all day, accompany them to activities, help with homework and keeping on schedule, and basically be a walking, talking version of their family calendar he curated down to the minute. Each attempt to secure a nanny over the last year had failed. They didn’t click with the children or the schedule requirements or, if he was being honest, with him. He was regimented and specific. He had the highest of standards, especially with his children. He came off as controlling. Difficult. But he wasn't difficult. He was particular.

He knew he was particular. He knew that the gig came with a specific set of rules that one might find restrictive. He made that very clear at the beginning of the interview process but then, a week into the gig, the nanny wants to move her boyfriend into their home. Or the new nanny nearly burns the house down when they sneak cigarettes into their bedroom and singe a priceless tapestry. The charred bits of said tapestry almost brought him to his knees, he was so deeply sad. Or the nanny says they suddenly need weekends completely off, no nights, no holidays, no morning drop off or afternoon pickup. Or they actually try to steal a Tony Award from his office. He had a few but still. Rude.

He adjusted his stiff white shirt collar above his soft tan cashmere sweater and pulled his cuffs. He exhaled smoothly.

“Alright, Hollanders,” he said, walking out of his office and into the palatial living room. He sat in the center of the sofa and clapped once. “Best behavior, okay? I have a good feeling about these applicants.”

His three children entered the room from different sides of their brownstone, still wearing their navy and forest green private school uniforms. They looked at him with matching pity, as if all were wordlessly transmitting the words, ‘Okay, dad.’

That was another reason he was desperate to find a full-time nanny. His kids seemed more blue than usual. Maybe they were picking up on his stress. The start of the school year was never easy but felt especially tough this year while working with a shaky routine. They needed someone they liked, they listened to, and who would help fill in the blanks when he could not be there.

His eldest daughter, Sylvia, had just turned eleven. Eleven going on twenty-one. Sylvia was a fashion plate who had taken over as his unofficial stylist. Her choices were usually better than the real stylist he paid a small fortune to so he could appear put together and casual without trying too hard.

Sylvia flipped her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and offered him a supportive smile. She was a dream baby who had turned into a dream child. So much like her mother, so smart, and just so sweet.

“We’ll try our very best,” she said, perching on the sofa and crossing her legs.

He smoothed her hair. “Thank you, honey.” He squinted at her. “Stop getting older. You sit just like your mom.”

“Dad, watch the waves,” she said, smiling as she gently guided his hand away. “And thank you. I’ve been practicing.”

His middle child, Maxwell, aged eight, scooted closer to sit next to him on the sofa. A rambunctious little fellow who looked like an exact miniature of himself, even down to the light freckles across the bridge of his nose, Max had found freedom in hockey. Shane hoped Max would lose himself in piano lessons like he did as a boy but was now stuck with hockey pads and paranoia about the state of his son’s teeth. Max’s grades were slipping no matter how elite a tutor Shane hired. He hoped the new nanny would bring more routine to homework. Perhaps that would help.

Vivian, his youngest, tiptoed to sit on the very end of the sofa. Like her sister, she resembled Rose the most and had light eyes, though her hair was a richer chestnut versus Sylvia's strawberry blonde. He and Rose were always honest with their children about their unique marriage. They always emphasized that they loved them the most, no matter what. Even so, Vivian took the most time to adjust. She had gotten even quieter than usual, shying away from family time and spending her days in her room. Shane understood. He was an awkward, shy child and preferred to be alone most of the time, but he always was close with his parents, even during stretches of growing pains. He and Vivian saw a family therapist together and he felt it was helping. They were doing their best.

He had many days of travel ahead of him followed by casting and rehearsals and workshops and all the things that go into making a musical happen. He wrote fast, always had, and was so flexible he could rewrite a song during Intermission and have it ready for Act 2. That was part of his success. It took some shows ten years to be seen on stage, if they even made it that far financially. His first show was a massive hit from its first workshop when he was still in college. Investors poured in and he had a hit Broadway musical before he even graduated, and that was while also raising Sylvia as a newborn. The audience wanted more and he gave it to them. He brought a second musical to the stage within a year of his first Tony—absolutely unheard of—and momentum carried him along to another smash hit. Sometimes, he thought back to that stretch of about three years when his life changed so drastically, and it almost felt like a hallucination.

All of his speed was impressive but he had to, you know, finish his new work. The show was technically done but rewrites were always happening. Trimming and tightening and clarifying. His first trip was a mere two weeks away and would take him from the children for over a week. He needed a nanny to start immediately.

Hayden Pike—his lifelong best friend, assistant, and house manager—came into the living room, looking sharp in a gray suit and crisp white shirt. The staff always dressed up a bit more when interviews were scheduled.

“How are we feeling, team?” Hayden asked. He rubbed his hands together. “Ready to open the floodgates?”

“We’re ready,” Shane said with a firm nod.

They were not ready.

For the next two hours, they were the audience for a parade of cranky, unpleasant, bizarre people who came in and out of their house. When the first candidate started out with—

“I don’t do music. It’s all noise to me.”

—Shane and the children just stared at her. The black grand piano in the background and cello resting on its stand might as well have sprouted eyes to exchange a concerned glance.

“Thank you for coming by,” Shane said warmly to the last interview, Marie from Maryland. He shook her hand. “We have a lot to think about but will be in touch.”

“I have a cruise next week and forgot to mention I can only work every other weekend.”

Shane nodded, his smile tired. “Good to know. Thanks for coming by.”

Hayden escorted Marie to the door but looked over his shoulder. He drew a line in front of his throat and flopped his tongue out. Shane bit back a laugh, though Max giggled and imitated Hayden’s gesture. They waited until the door closed before all relaxed on the sofa.

“Who doesn’t like music?” Sylvia asked, befuddled. “That’s so sad.”

Max loosened his tiny navy blue uniform tie like a washed up stockbroker at the end of a long day. “And why did that lady say she won’t be responsible for snacktime? What does she have against snacks? We’re kids!”

Sylvia pulled Max into a hug. “Why are you so cute?”

“I’m not cute,” Max giggled, wiggling in her hold.

“You are,” she said and squeezed him. Her face snapped towards the stairs. “I think that’s my phone.”

She kissed Max’s forehead then took off just as Hayden returned to the living room. Hayden sat on the arm of the sofa.

“Aren’t these people from an agency?” he asked.

“The best agency in all of Manhattan,” Shane said with a sigh. “I don’t get it. They’re supposed to be the creme de la creme.”

“More like crap de la crap,” Max muttered.

Hayden snorted but Shane stared at Max with one brow arched.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Language.”

“Sorry.” Max wilted onto his back, far too world weary for an eight year old. He whispered, “Crap is the least bad of the curses.”

Shane trained his gaze on him. “This is not a debate. Did you finish your homework?”

“Almost.”

Shane stifled a sigh, frustration wrinkling his forehead. “Maxie, let’s do it together. Go get it.”

“Can we use your desk and pens?” Max asked, excited.

Shane’s stern facade melted. He too loved fancy pens when he was a kid.

“Of course.”

“Okay!”

Max took off for the stairs. Shane gently squeezed Vivian’s shoulder

“What did you think?”

Vivian shrugged. “None of them like going to the park.”

“That is definitely a deal breaker,” Shane said, nodding. She looked at him and he thumbed her cheek, her smile small. “I guess we keep looking.”

“I guess so.”

“Homework done?” Shane asked.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Very good.”

“May I be excused?”

“Of course,” Shane said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “See you at dinner.”

“Fuck those assholes,” Svetlana spat in firey Russian. “The only thing that fucking prick Mikhail had right was that you’re too good for that place.”

Ilya smiled with dry, tight lips. He saw one of Svetlana’s roommates emerge from her bedroom.

“Yes, but now I must find new gig. New apartment,” he said, switching to English. It was only polite while around non-Russian speakers.

Svetlana collapsed on the sofa beside him. “You know you can stay as long as you need. I only wish I had more room.”

Ilya kept his voice down. “Thank you but I do not think your roommates would agree.”

Svetlana’s roommate, Alyssa, pointedly said, “They would not,” as she walked to the sink with a bowl and spoon, her spine a straight line and her feet turned outwards.

“Your boyfriend lived here all fucking summer,” Svetlana said, just as firey even in English. “We had to put up with him and his mess and he ate all our food. Ilya is a fucking angel compared to that beast.”

Three professional dancers in a one bedroom with flex walls was already tight. They were often out of town on national tours for long stretches of time, which made the tiny space livable, but the last thing they needed was a hulking Russian man fixed to their couch.

“I will be out soon. Two days,” Ilya said to Alyssa.

“Whatever,” she sighed, returning to her room.

“How about you wash your bowl, princess?” Svetlana called. “Soaking is not a substitution for washing.”

“Fuck you,” Alyssa’s voice said in the distance.

“Fuck you,” Svetlana replied. She turned towards Ilya then changed her mind and yelled over her shoulder, “Oh, Lys! Congrats on Pippin! That’s huge.”

“Aw, thanks, babe,” Alyssa replied.

“So proud of you.”

“Want to do drinks later?”

“Yes!”

Ilya wondered how they could pivot so quickly from fighting over dirty bowls to praising each other so sweetly. He watched Svetlana slip on black ballet flats. He furrowed his brows as he took in her blue striped button up and black pencil skirt. She looked so…conservative.

“Is this for, uh…a character? For an audition?” he asked, back to Russian.

She laughed and fastened her pearl necklace. “No. I got a temp gig, remember? With that production company I’ve worked for?”

“Ah, right. You like it?”

“I fucking love it. Free coffee. Regular pay. Air conditioning. If I didn’t love performing so much or have a contract lined up, I’d be begging to go full-time.” She stood and smoothed her skirt. “The boss is fucking hot, too.”

“Ah,” Ilya said. “Luckily, I did not have that problem at the shop.”

She shuddered. “Eugh. Three paunchy sacks of shit with faces like thumbs.”

Ilya laughed and flattened his palm on his stomach. The pleasant ache was unfamiliar. It was the first proper laugh he’d had in God knows how long. Svetlana snickered as she shouldered her black leather tote. She looked like a perfect office worker, even if she needed no actual income. Her family was wealthy, old money in Russia, and would bankroll her life but she preferred to do it herself—except when her old apartment had a roach infestation. Then she happily swiped daddy’s credit card and lived at The Plaza for two months.

Their third roommate, Rachel, emerged from her bedroom, half asleep and half dressed in mismatched crimson yoga shorts and a regular black lace bra.

Rachel yawned, “Hey,” to Svetlana on her way to the kitchen then slowed. She studied Ilya. “Who are you again?”

“Ilya,” he replied.

She nodded and kept yawning as she said, “Right.” Her face brightened and she pointed at him. “Hey, you’re tall. Can you help me get my luggage off the top rack of the closet?”

“Of course,” he said, already starting to stand.

Svetlana was relieved that Ilya immediately endeared himself to her roommates. His height and strength meant they put him to work. Store this, dust that, fix this. It was good. If he was helpful, as he always was, they would not care if he was around for a few days. Mikhail and his goons could suck her—

The beep of the copy machine distracted her from her thoughts. She picked up her papers and went back to her cubicle. She made quick work of her assignment and headed to the conference room. She pulled the glass door open but slowed upon finding the space was not empty.

“Oh. Mr. Hollander, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, taking a step back.

“No, no, you’re totally fine,” he said, waving her in. He wiggled his phone. “I’m on hold.”

She nodded and placed the pile of scores on the conference room table. Shane offered her a tight smile with his phone to his ear. His navy pants and white shirt were tailored perfectly to his solid form, the last of his summer tan kissing his cheeks.

A voice crackled on the phone and he perked up, sitting up straighter and picking up his pen.

“Yes, hi, I’m still…” He listened for a moment. “I know that and I completely respect your vetting process but don’t you think, perhaps, that the candidates you send should actually want to spend time with children? Wouldn’t that be a good starting point? Hello?” He looked at the screen. “Hel—”

Shane lowered his phone to the conference room table with the screen down. He ran his hand through his hair, sighing.

Svetlana tried not to stare at him as she prepped the glass water carafe and matching glasses in the center of the table but, first off, he was so hot and talented that it was difficult to be in the room with him and not squeal. Second, she had never seen Shane Hollander look anything less than put together and in complete control. His hair was mussed, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up his forearms, dark circles staring to form beneath his eyes.

“Can I help you with anything else, Mr. Hollander?” Svetlana asked.

The right corner of his lips rose while staring at the table. He murmured, “Can you magic a perfect nanny out of thin air?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“No, no, I’m sorry. Ignore me,” he said, snapping his gaze up to her. He offered a tired, close-lipped smile and picked up a score. He flipped it open to the center. “Thanks for these. That’s such a huge help.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Shane’s phone vibrated on the table. Svetlana went towards the conference room door but walked slowly. She heard Shane on the phone saying, “I know, Hay. We might have to cancel the trip. Postpone it, rather. The kids have a crazy schedule and I can’t ask you and Jackie to do all that.” She knew the trip he was referring to was to London to meet with investors. The very scores she had printed and bound were a test run for materials to take on said trip. Shane said, “My parents can’t,” then listened for a moment. “I dunno. Some ancient ruins in Italy, I think. Rose is still in Barcelona. I could try to get a sitter but we really need a full-timer. Too many moving parts.”

A plan started to form in Svetlana’s head. Yes, she was eavesdropping on Shane Hollander, a prince of Broadway and genuinely excellent boss, but it was for good reason. Something about Shane being a nice person who was shy, sometimes misunderstood as awkward, made her think of another man who was soft on the inside but his size and demeanor scared people away. Did Ilya have any professional experience with children? No. Did Ilya deserve a cushy job with a hot boss after spending two years working for rotten potatoes disguised as men? Yes.

She heard Shane say, “Yeah, man, see you later,” and spun on her heel before she could talk herself out of it.

“Mr. Hollander,” she said.

His name came out abruptly, startling him in the middle of putting on his glasses.

“Yes?” he asked, concerned. “Are you alright?”

She folded her hands in front of herself and strolled up to the table with as much charm as she could manage.

“I apologize and I did not mean to eavesdrop but…are you looking for a nanny?”

Hope flickered over his face. “Oh, uh, yes. Yes, I am. Why? Do you know someone good?”

“I do.”

“You do,” he repeated.

“I do. Would you consider a manny?”

Shane blinked twice as he processed her question. “A manny? Like, a man who nannies?”

“Yes.”

He thought for a moment, sliding his gaze to the table. A little wrinkle formed on his forehead. “Well, yes. Sure. Equal opportunity and all.” He looked at her cautiously. “Why? Do you know someone?"

“I have a dear friend who recently moved on from his last position and is in the market for a fresh start.”

“Does he have a background working with children the age of my kids?”

Svetlana pressed her perfectly glossed lips together while maintaining her smile. She had to speak carefully. The last thing she wanted was for Shane Hollander to think she was a liar or stupid. Or both.

“He can handle all ages,” she said with wide, innocent eyes. “He was always surrounded by children in Russia. He is very good at helping children behave. He is very naturally protective. Trustworthy. The hardest worker. And…” Her voice softened, as did her face. “He is kind. He is the sweetest person I know. He just needs a chance.”

Shane flipped through his notebook and scrolled his phone at the same time, looking between them. “Uh, this is unconventional but could he meet me after work today? Like,” he checked his watch, “in two hours?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her over his glasses. “Don’t you have to text him to see if he’s free?”

“He is free. If he is not free, I will make sure he is free,” she said quickly. She pulled her phone out of her pocket with a victorious, exhilarated flourish and poised her thumbs to type. “Where shall I tell him to meet you?”

One of the big benefits of their family home was its proximity to parks. Maybe it was a Canadian thing but Shane liked having the option to walk amidst trees and enjoy nature. It helped him think and relax. It was important for him that his children had the same admiration for the great outdoors. Sylvia and Max enjoyed being outside, and they definitely loved going to either his parent’s cottage or their own cottage every summer, but Vivian was the most connected to nature.

Shane encouraged all of their interests but he was especially tuned in to Vivian. She was quiet, hard to read. His mother teased that she was payback for the years when he was exactly the same growing up. He never pushed, whether that was forcing conversation or insisting that she hug a visiting relative. That was one thing he and Rose agreed upon before Sylvia was even born. Their children would always have their own agency and know the importance of consent. As long as they were polite, they were in charge of who they hugged and kissed.

And so, when Vivian asked to go to the park just to walk around, Shane was overjoyed. They would collect leaves and trace them onto paper to color later. Or they would try to identify different flowers and plants. Or they would count how many dogs they saw. All activities they could do together, that required little talking, and were controlled by Vivian’s pace. He treasured going to the park with Vivian and whomever their nanny ended up being, who would often be with the children more than he was, needed to feel the same way.

Setting up their initial meeting in the park across the street from their home was a serendipitous stroke of luck. It was in public, close to home in the event they wanted to continue the interview indoors, and it would be a quick way to weed out any potential bad fit with one of the deal-breakers to the position.

“I dunno, man,” Hayden said, steam from his latte curling up to his mouth. He sipped quickly. “He isn’t from an agency so how do we know he isn’t a total psycho?”

“We can do our usual background check process we’ve done for any employee.”

“Yeah, but that takes a week. You want this person to start right away.”

Shane swirled the ice remaining in his iced Americano. “Hay, I’m ready to wear a sandwich board and walk the streets of New York, begging for a nanny. I’d even write a jingle to go with my begging.”

“If you do that, please give me a heads up so I can film it for social.”

“Ha ha,” Shane said with an eye roll. They smiled at each other as they sipped.

“Mr. Hollander?”

Shane swallowed a mouthful of cold espresso and coughed, pounding the center of his chest. He sucked in a breath and turned towards the deep voice that was so rich he was sure it would now echo around inside his head for all of eternity.

The man was at least six feet tall with a halo of bronze-blond curls smoothed by product and combed backwards into a crown of waves. Shane could see the leopard print pattern on the man’s broad chest peeking out from his structured black jacket. He dragged his gaze from the sharpest jawline he’d ever seen to the gentle curve of the man’s full mouth, colored dusky rose as if stained by fresh raspberries. Shane’s lips fell open an inch before he met clear blue eyes that were already fixed on his face. He snapped himself back into reality with a single blink.

“Yes, hi. I’m Shane,” he said, offering his hand. “Shane Hollander.”

The man took his hand, the bow of his lips plumping. “Ilya Rozanov.”

“Thank you for meeting us at such short notice, Mr. Rozanov.”

“You are welcome.”

The army of nannies and au pairs sitting on benches or standing with strollers and scooters watched their introduction with rapt attention. Shane felt Ilya squeeze his hand and looked down at the sensation.

“Oh,” Shane chuckled and let go, flexing his hand against his outer thigh. He heard a throat clear and glanced to the side. “Mr. Rozanov, this is Hayden Pike.”

“Hello,” Ilya said to Hayden.

“Hi,” Hayden said.

Neither offered their hand for a shake. Shane nudged his shoulder to Hayden’s. Hayden held his hand out and Ilya took it. Their shake lasted much less time than the one with Shane.

“So, the kids are kind of all over the place,” Shane said, facing the playground. “Max is with his friends by the field, kicking a soccer ball around. Sylvia is with her friends hanging out at the top of a slide.” He gestured towards the group of girls. “I don’t know why they all want to sit up there in silence and look at their phones but there they are. And Vivian is…” He scanned the park and tried to clamp down on the sudden roiling fear churning in his gut. He caught sight of a forest green peacoat bouncing around in a group of children racing in circles. “She’s over there but some of these kids always play too rough.”

“Which one is she?” Ilya asked.

“She has on her green coat and black Mary Janes, but I—”

“Found her.”

Ilya waded through the crowd of riotous children and reached down into the scrum. He plucked Vivian out by the back of her coat and lifted her with ease. He was like some sort of human crane. Ilya folded his arm to his chest and sat her in the crook of his elbow, holding her tight. The crowd of on-lookers watched with mouths agape, some sipping their drinks with wide eyes.

Shane stared in awe as this stranger walked over with his youngest. Vivian was just as stunned but, after a quick look towards her dad, seemed perfectly content while nestled in his hold like a cozy baby bear.

He could hear Ilya say, “Hello. I am Ilya.” Ilya held his free arm out towards Shane. “Your papa and I are talking. May I carry you to him?”

Vivian said nothing but nodded, gripping his jacket with both hands. Max and Sylvia came running up behind them.

“Hey, we don’t know you!” Max shouted, rapidly pounding his fists against the small of Ilya’s back. “We don’t know you! Dad!”

Ilya looked down at him, amused and impressed. “Very good. You should protect sister.”

Shane appeared at Ilya’s side and knelt down. “Hey, Maxie, all is okay,” he soothed, pulling him into his side. He thumbed circles on the back of his neck. “Sorry to scare you, bud, but wow. Great instincts.”

“Who even is this guy?” Max asked.

“My thoughts exactly,” Hayden muttered. Shane rolled his eyes towards him and Hayden shrugged with his palms upwards. “What? I would hope a potential nanny in the city would know not to pick up random kids who don’t know them in a park, especially one that looks like the Terminator, but, hey, what do I know?”

“Nanny?” Sylvia asked.

“Terminator,” Ilya repeated dryly, his eyes on Hayden.

Shane stroked Max’s hair and explained, “Mr. Rozanov is applying for the nanny job. Manny. Whatever it’s called.”

Max’s concern shifted to curiosity, his big brown eyes fixated on Ilya. “Like, he would be taking care of us?”

“We have to go home and talk a bit but, yes, that would be his job if it works out for everyone,” Shane said. “Are you all ready to go?”

The children nodded, even Vivian, who was still resting in Ilya’s hold. Max and Sylvia each took one of Shane’s hands.

“You want to go down?” Ilya asked Vivian.

“No, thank you,” Vivian said politely.

“Okay,” he said, falling into step behind the group.

All Sveta said in her hurried Russian voice note, recorded in the office restroom, was that he had to dress for an interview, look amazing, be himself, and show up at a park to meet her hot boss about a job. Oh, and that she said he had a lot of experience being a manny so go with it because it would mean free housing. He texted her follow-up questions but they went unanswered. Her roommates clued him in about what a manny was.

They also approved of his outfit. Black pants, black Chelsea boots, and a thin, flowing shirt with a striking leopard pattern on it. He usually wore it unbuttoned to his sternum but kept a few more buttons fastened. Alyssa gave him a review of, “God, you look so fuckable.” Rachel was high at the time of their fashion show but kept voting for shirts that were tank tops. He had a hunch she kept changing her vote so he would switch shirts while they sat on the sofa and drank white wine. He went with Alyssa’s opinion. While he didn’t think fuckability would be a selling point, it was his best clean shirt, so that was that.

Ilya figured the family would live in a posh apartment. Many bedrooms, a nice view, upscale finishes like stainless steel appliances and curated coffee table books. He did not anticipate walking into a Gilded Age mansion right out of Architectural Digest on a random Tuesday. He was led into the formal living room where a delicate carafe of water waited on a tray with finger sandwiches. He wordlessly bent down to lower Vivian to the floor. She said, “Thank you,” and shook his hand.

“You are welcome,” he said. She left him to store her coat and backpack. An older man wordlessly appeared to take his coat and was gone before he could do more than say, “Thanks.” He looked up at the high ceiling and the grand staircase in the middle of an even grander living room. He whispered in Russian, “Am I hallucinating?”

Shane came out of a set of double doors off the living room and said, “Come on in, Mr. Rozanov. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Ilya took in the wardrobe change. Shane had been wearing a smart navy suit and black tie when they first met. He swapped the suit and tie for a cozy looking camel colored cardigan over his white button-up, his black trousers more casual but still perfectly tailored, his loafers made of buttery black leather.

Ilya walked across the dark hardwood until he reached a cream colored carpet. Shane held his arm out towards an elegant, overstuffed armchair upholstered in pale gold and blush jacquard. The family sat across from him on a matching sofa. Shane sat in the middle, Sylvia and Max on either side of him, and Vivian resting against the arm of the sofa.

“Again, thank you so much for your flexibility,” Shane said, opening a notebook on his lap.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Ilya said.

Shane clicked his pen and met Ilya’s gaze. “To start, do you have a resume?”

“Ah, no.”

The three children looked at their father, waiting for him to deliver his next line. Shane maintained his calm, friendly neutrality and nodded. The feeling was unnatural but his level of desperation overrode his need for a piece of paper that most people lied on anyway.

“Okay. No problem,” he said. “I know this was sort of rushed. I’m impressed Svetlana was even able to coordinate everything so quickly.”

“She could run space station. In Jimmy Choos.”

Shane smiled, a small, close-mouthed curve of his lips. “I believe it. If she wasn’t heading out on tour, I’d ask her to stay on full-time.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re friends with Svetlana?” Sylvia asked Ilya in wide-eyed disbelief. She gave Svetlana’s name the same hushed admiration of other single name stars like Cher. “She is so cool. And so pretty!”

“Yes. We are old friends from Russia.” His gaze shifted curiously to Shane. “They all know her?”

Shane explained, “The kids came to the office a few times over the summer and Svetlana was their favorite assistant.”

“She’s the one who knows where they keep all the snacks for the breakroom,” Max said, just as enthusiastic as Sylvia. “She got us so much Pirate’s Booty, I almost threw up. It was awesome.”

Ilya watched Shane sigh and ruffle Max’s hair. He cracked a smile. Even being in their presence for less than an hour, he could tell that Max was Shane’s mini-me visually, but Max’s boisterous energy, earnest honesty, and quickness to laugh was different from his more reserved, cautious father.

“Yes, that was a very fun day indeed,” Shane said, the skin beside his eyes crinkling. He refocused on Ilya. “Svetlana said you had a lot of experience with children?”

Ilya slowly said, “Yes, but not…” He looked at the ceiling and tilted his head side to side. “Not in place like this. Not as main job.”

“Okay. Can you tell me a bit about your work experience?”

“I was club security. I was bartender. I was hockey player. I was—”

“Hockey player!?” Max whispered. His big brown eyes widened and he put his hands over his mouth. His gaze slid to his father. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s alright,” Shane said with a small smile. He looked at Ilya. “Did you play professionally?”

“Yes. Is KHL in Russia. Not same as NHL but was professional.”

“Dad, can I ask a question?” Max asked, bouncing in place.

Shane nodded. “Sure. Go for it.”

Max addressed Ilya, practically glowing. “What position did you play?”

“Center but I wing too.” Ilya narrowed his gaze. “Let me guess. You are…goalie?”

Max giggled, “No!” and shook his head. “I’m a center!”

“Ah. I see,” Ilya said, nodding as the rest of the family laughed. “You should learn to wing. Will make you more valuable.”

“Could you teach me?”

“We will see,” Ilya said with surprising gentleness. He felt heat on his face and looked up to meet Shane’s gaze. “After hockey, I help with niece from newborn to toddler. I come to US and work in shop. I babysit boss’ grandkids. I babysit boss, too. Now we are here.”

“Okay,” Shane said, confusion fogging his gaze. He opened and closed his mouth. “Sorry. Svetlana said you had a lot of experience managing children but has it mostly been babysitting, no full-time positions?”

“She probably means teammates. They sometimes make toddler look responsible.” He ran his hand back through his hair and muttered, “Men in shop even worse.”

“What kind of shop was it?” Sylvia asked.

“Pawn shop," Ilya said, his voice as gentle as it was when speaking to Max. "Mostly people selling jewelry, electronics, things like that.”

Shane half-listened to Sylvia asking Ilya about his favorite style of jewelry while trying to piece together Ilya’s job history. A pawn shop? To go from pawn shop worker in Brighton Beach to full-time childcare on the Upper East Side was a unique path. He was different in basically every way one could be when compared to other nannies and au pairs.

But Ilya did have experience with children. More importantly, he was getting along with his children. Getting along was an understatement. Max was hypnotized, Sylvia chatted with him like an old pal, and even Vivian looked excited to listen to Ilya’s answers. Ilya’s resume was sparse but they had spent weeks meeting agency candidates that were picture perfect on paper. All were a bad fit in reality. Maybe unconventional was the way to go.

The most basic thing was the children liked him, which made Shane like him even more. Isn’t that the main way people get hired for a job? Qualifications are important, yes, but doesn’t it usually come down to who you would want to spend all day working with?

“Can you please teach us a Russian word?” Vivian asked.

Her voice was quiet but the question still shocked Shane out of his thoughtful state.

“Certainly,” Ilya said, clasping his hands and leaning his forearms on his knees. It brought him more to her eye level. “What do you want to say?”

Vivian thought for a moment, resting her finger on her chin. “Puppy.”

“Ah. Good choice. Shchenok,” Ilya said. He repeated slower, “Shchenok.” He tipped his forehead forward. “Now you say.”

Her cheeks pinked but she said, “Shchenok.”

He put his hand on his ear. “Yeshche raz, pozhaluysta.”

“Shchenok,” she declared with more confidence.

“Atlichnaya rabota, Vivi,” he said warmly, smiling. “Excellent job. You will speak Russian in no time.”

She smiled wide. “Did you ask me to say it again? Is that what that meant when you touched your ear?”

“Da. See? Perfect student already.” He held his fingers out and said, ”Yeshche raz. Say it again. Pozhaluysta. Please.”

The three children repeated, “Yeshche raz, pozhaluysta.”

“Molodets,” Ilya said with pride. “Well done.”

Shane looked from his children to Ilya as if four aliens had taken up residence in his brownstone. He had hoped that they would get a nanny that spoke another language, and that perhaps the children would pick up on it, but he did not anticipate their rabid fascination with the Russian language.

Slowly, Shane said, “I’m…not quite sure what is happening.” He palmed Max’s head and tipped his face up to squint at him. “Are you the same kids I need to beg and bribe to go to French lessons every week?”

The children laughed, Ilya’s smile warm.

“You speak French?” he asked Shane.

“I do.”

“Impressive.”

Shane started to smile but pressed his lips together. “Can you legally drive in the US?”

“Yes.”

“You would be driving the children to most activities. We can, of course, hire drivers but it’s often easiest for staff to just bounce from place to place. It can be a lot of time sitting and waiting for appointments to end.”

“Is okay. I like to read.”

“Oh,” Shane said with a slight voice crack.

“Surprising?”

“No, not at all. Just…learning. Uh.” He shifted in his seat and crossed his leg. “Would you consider yourself a good driver who focuses on safety?”

“Yes.” When Shane waited for him to elaborate, Ilya explained, “I have even been race car driver. Very safe.”

“Cool!” Max exclaimed and the girls giggled.

“We don’t need Formula 1,” Shane said flatly. “Just safety.”

Ilya’s eyes slid to his, the corners of his lips curving upwards and emphasizing his cupid’s bow.

“Yes, Mr. Hollander, of course. Safety first.”

His words were like an immediate salve. He was teasing in his own way, surprisingly gentle and with a twinkle in his eye. The way his deep voice sounded when wrapped around Mr. Hollander. The way his resonance spread over them like a warm blanket. The lingering of his tongue on the two L’s in his name. It all made something shiver deep within him.

Shane prided himself on never, ever being involved with anyone he worked professionally with. No staff ever. No colleagues ever. It was too risky with too many opportunities for power imbalance or misunderstandings to ruin things. Dating was hard enough as it is as a father of three in his early thirties.

He tried to reign his thoughts in. Why was he thinking about dating right now while asking questions about car safety? He saw Ilya’s smile widen ever so slightly and his blood ran cold. How long had their eyes been locked?

Shane cleared his throat, looking down at his checklist with heated cheeks.

“Alright, Hollanders,” he said to his children. “I think I’d like to speak with Mr. Rozanov in private about some business related questions and you have homework.”

“Aw, do we have to?” Max asked, folding his arms and flopping back on the sofa. “The other nannies sucked but Mr. Rozanov is cool.”

llya hid his smile behind his hand while Shane’s mortification radiated off of him. Shane opened his mouth but Ilya’s voice smoothly joined the conversation before he could correct Max.

“Your papa will not let me come back if you use words like that. He will think I am bad influence.” Ilya brought his brows in and pursed his lips forward while flexing, growling, “Big, mean Russian, yes?”

“You’re not mean,” Vivian giggled.

“No?” Ilya said as if confused.

“No,” she said, quiet but happy.

Ilya held his arms out and looked at himself. “Big?”

“I mean, yeah, you’re jacked,” Max said.

Ilya laughed and found Shane, Vivian and Sylvia to be laughing too. A pretty, middle-aged woman with a sharp blonde bob popped out of a swinging door in the distance. She stood in the doorway to prop the door open, a crisp white and black striped apron covering her front.

“Kids, why don’t we have a quick snack?” she asked.

The mention of snacks was too strong a temptation and pulled the children off the sofa. Each cheerfully said, “Bye, Mr. Rozanov,” as they ran past him.

Shane called, “Thanks, Cece.”

“You got it,” the woman said, her voice fading as the door swung closed.

Ilya watched Shane stare at the swinging door. “Everything okay?”

Shane looked at him, a touch flustered. “Yes, uh, yeah. They’re just…They all seemed happy.”

“They are sweet. Well behaved.”

“My son said sucks and told you that you were jacked.”

Ilya smiled crookedly. “He is wise little man.” Shane gave him a look, his mouth struggling not to smile. “I like it. He is very honest.”

Shane did smile but it was tight. He appeared more tired than he had at any point in the interview, his shoulders sagging with a sigh. He ran his hand through his shiny dark hair and refocused on his notebook.

“Are you comfortable with technology?” Shane asked. “I’m specifically referring to being very on top of multiple shared calendars, being prompt with emails, documenting appointments I can’t be at for the children with note-taking and detailed reports?”

“Yes.”

“All of that?”

Ilya could not recall ever following a calendar and had approximately seventeen thousand unread emails in his mailbox but said, “Of course.”

Shane wrote something in his notebook. “Great. May I ask about your visa status and your ability to work in the US?”

Ilya swallowed before he replied. He knew employers could ask. He also knew he was current on his visa. It was still a stressful question to receive, even if said in such a kind way.

“I have H-1B for one more year but was with old job.”

“Oh, great,” Shane said with a more relaxed smile. “That makes things so much easier.” He made a note in his notebook. “We can get your I-129 filed right away. How many days are you into the sixty day grace period?”

Ilya did not respond, his brain trying to keep up with what he was hearing. Shane looked at him, curious and unconcerned, and Ilya felt his stomach flutter. Hearing Shane speak about the intricacies of visas with no hesitation nearly knocked him off his chair. Shane knowing exactly how much time left he had on the clock before he had to either find new work sponsorship or leave the country sent a shiver up his spine. He had been researching nonstop but it was rare for people to be so knowledgeable about the ins and outs of visa requirements.

“Three,” Ilya finally said.

“Great. That should be no problem. What’s your degree in?”

Ilya swallowed again. Wow. He really knew his stuff.

“Mathematics,” Ilya said.

Ilya watched him write in his book as he hummed. His handwriting was fluid, the drag of the fine-point pen against thick paper soothing rather than the usual sound of chicken scratch. Ilya flickered his gaze from the tip of his pen to his freckles.

“You know a lot about this,” Ilya said, cautious.

Shane finished writing then set his pen down in the notebook’s spine. He crossed his leg, resting the book on his thigh.

“Well, I’m Canadian, so I had to deal with a lot of paperwork.” Shane swirled his hand for each detail. “Studying in the US, working in the US, my ex-wife is American, employing artists from all over the world, me working all over the world.” His expression softened as if they were sharing old war stories. “I get it. How hard it is to navigate. It must be especially hard in your second language.”

Ilya tried to catalogue as many things about Shane Hollander as he could without staring so much he looked like a lunatic. The ex and wife in ex-wife—ex was fine, wife was confusing (and a little disappointing). Him being Canadian. His acknowledgement that language could make things difficult. Him being so staggeringly beautiful even when talking about something as uncomfortable and stressful as visas. It was a lot.

“Yes,” Ilya managed to reply. “But…”

Shane hummed, tilting his head. Ilya wet his lips with his eyes trained on the dip of Shane’s throat, his skin so warmly tender above the crisp white collar of his shirt. He wanted to ask if he got the job, what if it didn’t work out? If Shane filed a form for him, would he have to speak to Mikhail? When Shane asked no further questions about his status, such as how he managed to get a highly sought after work visa to man a piss-poor pawn shop, Ilya’s shoulders relaxed.

“Nevermind,” Ilya said. “Nothing.”

“So, how are you feeling about all this?” Shane asked, rubbing his thumb on his pen.

“What is this?” Ilya asked.

“The job. Are you still interested after learning more about the role?”

“Yes, but you really want me to be manny?”

“I do,” Shane said with complete certainty. “It would be on a trial basis for thirty days. There will definitely be a learning curve and trust will take time. And obviously all is contingent on your complete background check results. But you could start and move into your rooms as soon as you’re able.”

“Rooms? More than one?”

“Come with me,” Shane said.

He led Ilya down one wing of the home. Ilya’s shoes sank into the thick scarlet carpet runner, the oak hardwood framing the carpet gleaming as if freshly polished. The size of the space felt more like a hotel. How much would this place go for? The square footage alone meant it was in the tens of millions.

“So, this is the area of the house for staff,” Shane said. “These rooms all had other uses when we moved in. Wine cellar and offices and such. I preferred having more livable space, either for staff or guests.”

“Smart,” Ilya said.

“Thanks,” Shane said, pleased. “Just to get this out of the way, there is no smoking anywhere on the property, including private bedrooms, on the balconies, on the roof, on the steps. Nowhere.”

“Of course.”

Ilya tried to fix his hair while discreetly smelling the cuff of his shirt. He only smoked once that day and, in his defence, he had no idea what Svetlana was setting him up for. He hoped a nervous cigarette for his walk to the park wouldn’t be his downfall.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that,” Shane said. Ilya lowered his hand, keeping his gaze forward. His words tumbled out faster. “We had a bad experience with someone smoking down here. They started a small fire. You don’t smell like smoke. You smell g—I mean—” Shane’s face twitched. “Not that I was, uh, smelling you.”

“Of course, Mr. Hollander.”

Shane swallowed and smoothed his eyelashes on his right eye. He pointed to a closed door.

“That’s Hayden and Jackie’s room. You met Hayden. He does about a million things. Jackie’s his wife and manages special events, travel, and parties. They live in Westchester because they have kids and wanted more space but they use their suite here for long days.” He pointed to a door on the other side of the hall. “That’s Niles and Cece. They’re always busy. Niles is our butler. Cece is our chef. They’ve been in the house longer than we have.” They reached the end of the hallway. It had French doors made of wood as rich as the floor and windowsills, flowers carved into the frame. “And this would be your suite.”

Shane opened the doors. It revealed an airy bedroom outfitted in pale yellows and various shades of cream. He stepped inside and gestured for Ilya to come in. Ilya followed, sunlight from the many windows nearly blinding him. Everything looked lush. From the spotless carpet to the overstuffed bedding. From the fluffy mountain of pillows to the beautiful white wallpaper with the faintest design of floral outlines in a slightly shinier finish. It was all designed for comfort and luxury.

“This is the bedroom,” Shane said with his arms out. He gestured to a half-open door. “It has an en suite bathroom with a shower and a tub. There’s a small sitting area through the other door. Plus, of course, you have use of the rest of the home. Kitchen. Laundry Room. Gym. Sauna. Cinema.”

Ilya looked at their reflection on the enormous flatscreen mounted to the wall. All he said was, “Okay.”

“You’re welcome to have guests visit on your time off but no overnight guests.” Shane swayed his head. “I know, I know, that seems like a big ask, but it’s more a security and consistency thing. And respect for everyone’s privacy in the house.”

“I get it.”

Shane walked backwards to face him, squinting. “You do?”

“Not good for lots of strangers in and out every night.” Ilya processed his own words while Shane’s brows arched upwards. Ilya shook his head to clear the haze of heat prickling his cheeks, speaking faster to add, “Not that it is that way. Many strangers. I just mean—Uh—I can—Nevermind. No problem.”

Shane nodded for a beat. “Great. Um.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “So, this is the en suite.” He opened the door and flicked the light on. “You’d receive your full salary even during the trial period. Benefits are available the minute you start and we cover the whole premium.”

“Benefits?” Ilya asked, glancing around the bathroom that was almost as large as his entire apartment at Mikhail’s. The fancy Toto toilet alone was worth accepting the job.

“Yes. We have an excellent medical plan including dental and vision. Oh, and we match 401k contributions up to nine percent.”

“Nine percent!?”

Ilya’s voice echoed on the tiles and Shane chuckled. Of all the details, that wasn’t the one he thought would elicit such a response. He nodded towards the sitting area and they walked in. It was as charming as the bedroom with a flat screen nestled in a grand wooden entertainment center. The sofa and arm chair were on the smaller side but were surely an upgrade from milk cartons at Mikhail’s.

“Meals are included,” Shane said. “I think it’s a fair trade off for the schedule. You can cook your own food, of course, but you can also eat what chef makes for each meal.”

Ilya dragged his gaze away from a framed painting of a duck hanging above a full bookcase. “What do you mean?”

“We all eat breakfast together in the morning. You, me, the kids, other staff. That’s the one meal I can almost always make with my schedule when I’m home. It’s important that we’re all together to talk through the day and that will include you. We usually do dinner all together if I’m home.”

“I cook and clean up breakfast, you mean?”

Confusion flickered over Shane’s face but was quickly replaced with what Ilya recognized as pity.

“No, Mr. Rozanov,” Shane said, managing to avoid pity in his tone. Warmth took its place. “You eat breakfast with us. No cooking and cleaning required, though I expect you to keep your space clean and help keep the kids honest with their chores. That includes being sure their rooms and uniforms are clean, their laundry is away, things like that. Niles and his team clean all bathrooms and change the linens weekly.”

They walked back into the bedroom then out into the hall. Shane continued to narrate his tour once they started down another wing.

“Home gym is down one level,” Shane said, gesturing to a closed door. He spun to walk backwards as he talked. “There’s an elevator but it sometimes takes a while so I usually just take the back stairs in the kitchen.” They went through a swinging door and he held his arms out. “This is the kitchen. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Ilya echoed.

Shane’s lips twitched into a small smirk. “Let’s go to my office to talk numbers.”

Ilya hummed, keeping his steps moving forward as his eyes tried to take in every pot and pan hanging from the copper rack bolted to the matching tiled ceiling. Shane opened two sliding doors and stepped out of his black loafers. Ilya copied him, lining up his black Chelsea boots next to the loafers. Shane looked at his shoes in surprise.

Ilya started to say, “Do you want me to…”

“No, no, uh, no. Thanks for…” He smiled, bashful and with faint pink coloring his cheeks. “We usually are pretty shoe-free in the house but I really don’t like it in my spaces. Office. Bedroom. And so on.”

“Understood. Sidewalk is vile. Houseshoes okay?”

“Yes, absolutely. And I’m kind of protective of this room.” He directed his gaze to the throw rug that took up almost the entire space. He clasped his fingers in front of himself while rolling up on the balls of his feet. “I finally found this beauty after chasing it for years. It’s a Kingsly Tuken.”

Ilya pursed his lips forward, nodding thoughtfully. The way Shane said Kingsly Tuken about what appeared to be a regular old tan rug sounded as if he was trying not to brag about owning a Ferrari. It nearly pulled a laugh out of him but he breathed deeply through his nose.

“Good rug,” is all Ilya said, his voice flat. He watched Shane out of the corner of his eye and was rewarded by Shane’s brows pinching inward in displeasure. That laugh wanted to burst out even more. What could he say? Shane Hollander was a cute grump. “So…numbers?”

“Yes, right,” Shane said, starting to walk again. He pulled the chair in front of his desk out for Ilya. “Please. Sit. Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

Even being in this bubble of wealth for only an hour, Shane’s independence from his staff was confusing. Why was Shane Hollander asking if he wanted a drink? Didn’t he have a butler and a chef and a personal assistant to take care of such things?

“Ah, no,” Ilya said, sinking into his chair. “But thank you.”

Ilya sat facing Shane’s desk chair, a rich, luxurious looking piece of furniture made of tufted dark maroon leather. Instead of sitting there, Shane pulled a basic wooden chair from its spot beside a black Yamaha upright piano in the corner. He sat beside Ilya and opened his laptop on the desk, a notebook resting on his folded leg. Ilya watched Shane pull glasses out of his jacket pocket, rimmed black on top with wire on the bottom, and slide them up the freckled bridge of his nose.

Ilya’s breath caught, his teeth clenching to keep his mouth closed and all noises muffled. He again relied on deep breathing through his nose to survive being within touching distance of the most beautiful Canadian librarian that he’d ever seen.

Shane double clicked his mousepad and read for a beat, then turned back a page in his notebook. He didn’t look up at Ilya as he started speaking.

“Right, so, the starting salary is eighty thousand but doesn’t include bonuses, paid overtime, transit reimbursement, and so on.”

Ilya’s throat went dry. He couldn’t tell if it was the glasses, the freckles, Shane slipping into a business oriented energy as he rambled through details, or the amount of money that was being offered right off the bat. Perhaps he should have accepted a bottle of overpriced spring water.

“You’ll get thirty days of vacation to start plus ten personal days,” Shane said, dragging his pen down a checklist. “We’ll pick one day per week that is your regular off day and set an end time each night so you don’t feel on-call all the time. Flexible sick time. Paid holidays if you’re working. Time and a half, of course. It’s all flexible so just come to me if you need something with the schedule.”

“Vacation days for what?” Ilya asked.

“Oh, uh,” Shane looked up from his notebook, “whatever you want?”

“Like Christmas, Thanksgiving, that sort of thing?”

“It can be, if you want,” Shane said, voice softening. It was becoming clear that Ilya never had any sort of benefits at a prior job. “We travel for some holidays. Others the kids are off from school but we still need help. Ideally you would be available if we need you with us, but I’d never want to take you away from your own family time.”

“Will not be problem.”

Ilya did not elaborate. They sat in silence.

“So,” Ilya held out the word, “those are days with no pay? The vacation ones?”

Shane shook his head. “Oh, no. You’ll be salaried. You still get paid for vacation and sick days.” Ilya stared at him. He appeared almost guarded. Shane raised his brows as if to say, ‘All okay?’

“Okay,” Ilya said.

It was the easiest okay he’d ever said. Eighty thousand dollar starting salary, healthcare, free food and housing, and a hot boss? Who wouldn’t sign on the dotted line? And if Shane Hollander turned out to be a murderous psycho, or his family was a nightmare, at least he would have a story to tell in the afterlife.

Shane cautiously asked, “Okay, like…It’s a go?”

“Yes,” Ilya said with a nod. The right corner of his lips twitched upwards. “I will be manny.”

“Great,” Shane exhaled, popping up. He grabbed a thick pile of papers from the middle of his desk and held it out to Ilya. He adding piles of paper as he spoke. “Here is the staff handbook, code of conduct, onboarding forms, state and city labor law documents, privacy agreement, job expectations, schedule for all three kids, emergency contact form, emergency contact list—those are different things—and other important details. You’ll have to complete an anti-sexual harassment training online but we can have you do that on your first day. Oh. Before I forget.” He searched in his desk drawer. “This is for you. You’ll have to do a lot of work on your phone. Calendars. Email. Communicating via text with teachers and tutors and me, of course.” Shane placed an iPhone box on top of the mountain of papers. It was the newest model, the box unopened. He added an unopened box of AirPods Pro. Shane studied the pile while tapping his pen on his checklist and said, “The phone is the company’s but the headphones were free when we bought the phone so you can just have them.” He spoke as if he gifted Ilya a free pen. “There’s a list of logins in the handbook. Hayden will set up your staff email and work number. You’ll also get all this and an official letter of agreement digitally. I provide a paper copy for your records.”

Ilya smirked slightly as he leafed through pages of the top packet. He was living out of a duffel bag and Shane Hollander thought he had a filing cabinet hidden inside.

“Yes. My records,” Ilya said. He looked up from his lap. “Staff email?”

“It’ll be your first name at Hollander dot com.”

Ilya thought for a moment. “Like…Ilya Hollander? Not Ilya Rozanov Hollander?”

Shane’s face heated under Ilya’s small, teasing smile. “No, uh, Ilya at Hollander dot com.”

“Ah.” Ilya flipped through the top packet. His brows pinched inwards. “Code of conduct?”

“Like, professional dress code, use of the house and vehicles, no drugs, and so on.”

Ilya tilted his head with their eyes locked and arched one brow as he leaned forward. The small motion caused his silky shirt to shift on his pecs, his muscles bulging.

“Do I not dress like professional?” Ilya asked, his voice even deeper than usual.

Much like Ilya’s shock about the 401k matching number, his choice of what rule to test was just as surprising.

Shane shook his head then blinked rapidly and nodded. “Yes. You do. Yes. Great. You…are…” Shane knocked his fist on the top of his desk. “Great.”

Ilya held his stare then sat back in his seat. “Yes.”

“You’re just declaring that you’re great?”

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “You are one who just hire me for eighty thousand and pretty princess room. You tell me.”

Shane exhaled a deep, melodic, rolling laugh that showed all his teeth, his head thrown back. He huffed a quick breath afterwards that morphed into what was almost a groan and hid his mouth with his hand. He refocused on Ilya and found him to be smiling, his lips closed but his eyes so very warm.

A knock on the office doors broke their stare. The doors cracked open. A sliver of Max’s face was revealed first. Sylvia stacked on top of him. Vivian’s little face appeared at the bottom.

“Well?” Max asked hopefully, dragging out the sound and grinning.

Ilya turned in his seat to face them and shook the stack of paperwork. “Your papa give me many papers. Do you think interview went well?”

The children threw the doors open and cheered in unison while rushing into the room. Vivian and Sylvia said, “Pozdravlyayu!” as they galloped to stand in front of him.

Ilya laughed, “Pozdravlyayu!? You even say congratulations like pro. Where you learn such perfect Russian?”

“Google Translate,” Max said. He threw himself into Ilya’s side like a tiny hockey check. “Polesdriveyahoo!”

Ilya dramatically said, “Oof,” before his deep laughter resonated, resting his hand on Max’s shoulders. “You get A for effort. We can work on accent.” He gasped down at Max’s black school loafers. “Oh, no. Shoes on King Tut rug. Hurry, before papa sees.”

He stood and took Max with him, holding his pile of papers in one arm while using his other arm to hold Max against his chest. That sent the children into a chorus of giggles, Max clutching his arm and swinging his legs as if hanging onto a jungle gym.

Ilya felt a sudden pull to see shining brown eyes, as if he and Shane had not spent the last hour talking to each other. Would Shane be comfortable with his children being so physical when they barely knew him? He looked up from the children’s faces and searched the room. He found Shane already looking at him, their gazes aligning.

Shane had moved from his wooden chair and now leaned back against the front of his desk with his hands resting on either side of his thick thighs, his ankles crossed. His glasses were off and looped in the vee of his white shirt, now with a few more buttons undone.

Most importantly, he was smiling. He looked relieved. Delighted, even. He didn’t look tired anymore, his eyes shimmering with amusement.

Ilya asked him, “Okay?”

Shane nodded. “Okay.”

They held each other’s stare as the children chattered and played. Ilya flickered one eye closed in a blink-and-you-miss-it wink. The corners of Shane’s lips twitched higher.