“Hmm.” I think it over, then I lean forward and meet her gaze head-on. If I’m not mistaken, she flinches and takes a small step back. “Then try harder. I may look like a dumb bimbo, but I too, went through a hellion phase. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’re planning—trust me, baby, I wrote the book.”
She wrinkles her nose, seemingly more confused than ever. “Why?” she demands.
I shrug as if the answer is obvious. “I wanted attention. I wanted to make my dad feel guilty. I wanted my mom to stop day drinking and look at me. I was bored. What made you want to provoke the Robinsons?”
Her piercing eyes narrow further. “You’re weird,” she declares, returning to her suitcase. She wrenches it open, and one by one withdraws what seems to be her few personal belongings. Displaying another one of Vadim’s quirks, she meticulously folds a cream-colored sweater and reaches for an orange shirt.
“We can take you shopping if you’d like,” I say, volunteering the use of Vadim’s magic credit card. “Do you like dresses? Pants?”
She doesn’t answer, preferring to sort her few outfits, leaving her book and stuffed animal on the bed. The case she grabs last. “This has to go in the fridge,” she says with all of the maturity of a miniature adult, not a seven-year-old. “It’s my insulin.”
“Okay. We’ll throw it in when we go downstairs. How about we speed things along?” I reach for a neatly folded jacket. “I can help you put these away—”
“Why?” Her tone isn’t quite as hostile, but her dark brows are furrowing, her frown skeptical. God, it’s so much like interacting with Vadim. Someone constantly on guard, mistrustful of any hint of kindness. For a horrible second, I wonder if his daughter’s upbringing was even a fraction as horrific as his. Then I push the thought away and tug the jacket from her grip, moving toward her closet as she watches on in shock.
“You have beautiful hair,” I tell her, ignoring the question. “I can braid it for you tonight, if you want. I used to love when my mom did that.”
“But you aren’t my mom,” she snipes almost in a singsong tone.
I ignore the bait and snatch an empty hanger from one of the many rails lining her very own massive walk-in closet. My brain skips ahead, envisioning all of the various clothing items she’ll need to stock it with. Pajamas. Day clothing. Night clothing. Dress-up clothing. If dressing her father was a challenge, I assume she’ll be just as surly to shop for. A challenge I’m willing to accept.
“Here,” I tell her, holding out my hand for the sweater in her grip. “Let me put your things away. Then we’ll go get some lunch, huh?”
So surly. So wary. To my surprise, she reluctantly steps forward and relinquishes the sweater. As I hang it, she reappears with the rest of her clothing balanced in her arms.
“What’s your name?” she asks almost grudgingly as I arrange her clothing according to color.
“Tiffany.”
She accepts the introduction with a sniff. “I’m hungry.”
I hang her last shirt and switch off the light. “I think the food should be ready. Let’s go check.”
She follows as I descend the stairs and enter the kitchen to find Vadim at the counter, dividing the contents of the platters between three plates. While I stow Magda’s pink insulin case into the fridge, he looks up, his expression almost panicked. Help me, I imagine him begging were he desperate enough to do so out loud. Don’t leave me.
I smile to reassure him.
“I hope you like nuggets,” I tell Magda as I take a seat at the table.
She claims the one across from me but frowns as Vadim places a plate down in front of her. Warily, she nudges a nugget with the tip of her finger before taking a hesitant bite. Ena’s cooking must win her over because all reluctance drains from her face, and she doesn’t need any more prompting.
I watch her, so distracted by the sight of her that I barely notice as Vadim sits beside me. Pretty soon, we’re both staring at her, his beautiful little girl, unaware of the nearness of her biological father. Or how much he loves her already. His fingers twitch as she reaches for a glass of water as if he has to stop himself from grabbing it for her. When she finishes her food, he’s already racing across the kitchen in search of a napkin.
“Am I still going to my school?” Magda asks, pushing her plate aside.
“Yes.” Vadim offers her a napkin that she doesn’t take. Awkwardly he sets it beside her and circles the table to reclaim his seat. “After the break. Don’t worry about any disruptions.”
“Okay,” she says, eyeing her tiny fingers. “And I can have new clothes?”
“Anything,” Vadim rasps.
Magda fixates her steely gaze on me. “And you’ll take me?”
“If you want,” I say cautiously. “We could go tomorrow?”
She shrugs and sips from her water. “Okay.”
I don’t think I’m the only one who misses the fact that Vadim is pointedly left out of her invitation.
“Can I go up to my room now?”
“Y-Yes—” Vadim barely gets the word out before she’s skipping merrily across the kitchen. Her tiny steps echo as she marches up the stairs, and once again, her door slams with force.
Vadim sighs, his jaw clenched, his gaze on the table. One of his hands forms a fist over the glass surface, the knuckles whitening.
I gingerly cradle his fingers with my own and lean down, kissing the rigid peaks. Then I feather another kiss over his wrist, up to his collar. Higher, until I finally reach his lips.
“You did good,” I insist as his mouth remains stubbornly closed. “You did so good—”
“Have I?” He withdraws from me and stands, tearing at his hair with both hands. “I need to work,” he says. “I’ll be in the study.”
I watch him go, more conflicted than ever. Can
