“Can I call you Sasha?”
Another flutter in my chest, and that unsettled feeling in my stomach again. “I don’t see why not,” I say carefully, and I canfeelMax tense on the other side of me.
And why is that? It’s not as if I’m doing anything wrong. I’m having a casual conversation, and Max has made it very clear that we’re not together. If he’s jealous over that, it’s his problem.
“Well?” Art glances over at Max. “What’s the situation like for you,back home?”
Max presses his lips together, letting the question hang while he takes another sip of his wine. “I don’t live in the main house. I keep my space as clean as I can in between visits from, yes, the cleaning lady who comes to help with it. I cook for myself usually when I’m home, except for when I’m invited up to the main house for dinner.”
“Well.” Art looks almost mildly annoyed by the answer. “Congratulations then, brother. You’ve become the most independent one of us.”
He tilts his wine glass towards Max, and I catch a hint of mockery in his smile before it smooths away, and Art turns his attention back towards me.
“So you said you’re practically part of the staff at home, Sasha? What is it that you do?”
“She’s not–” Max starts to say, but I glance at him sharply, suddenly irritated.
“I can answer him myself,” I say coolly, and Art grins.
“Of course, you can. So?”
Giana appears then to sweep our soup dishes away, replacing them with a green salad scattered with almond silvers, tangerine pieces, and shallots, and the conversation freezes for a moment.
“I’m the nanny to four children,” I tell Art, stabbing the salad with my fork.
Art makes a slight face. “That sounds like a huge responsibility. Not one I’d want, that’s for sure. Do you actually like it?”
“I do.” I manage to grab the decanter myself this time, refilling my wine glass. “I love kids–or at least I discovered that I do, and they’re wonderful, as is their mother. We’re very close; I don’t even like to say she’s my employer. She’s my friend–my family, really, and I’m happy to be there.”
“So why are you here with my brother?” Art looks at me keenly, and I feel my cheeks pinken. I think he sees it, too, because he quickly gives me an affable smile. “I’m sorry if that was too abrupt. I’m just very curious by nature. Max can vouch for that.”
“He is.” Max stabs at his salad with more force than I’ve ever seen him attack anything, especially spinach leaves. “He was always getting into trouble when we were children, talking his way out of it, and then finding a way to blame someone else.”
“You make me sound like a horror to live with.”
“You were,” Max says, without a trace of humor in his voice, and I glance at him.
“Max–” I start to say, but Giana is coming through the door again with the night’s main course, what looks like roasted lamb, and an assortment of vegetables along with it, along with a huge dish of fluffy mashed potatoes.
I can feel Art’s eyes on me as I finish my salad, handing the dish to Giana after she serves up the plates with our main course on it. He refills my wine glass before I can stop him, and I catch his gaze as I look up.
“Was that what you always wanted, then?” Art asks. “To take care of someone else’s children?”
I try to pick out some edge, some sarcasm to his voice, but he sounds genuinely curious. “Of course not,” I tell him, poking at my lamb with my fork. “It just happened to be what was right for me at the time, and it turns out that it makes me happy. So I have no desire to change things, right now.”
“What if you met someone?” Art pauses, then laughs sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’m being too forward again. It’s just–I thought for certain that you and my brother were together. I don’t know how he stands it, honestly. A priest for so long, and then to have you around–”
“Enough!” Max’s voice comes out through gritted teeth. “I can throw you out any time I feel like it,brother. Behave yourself.”
Art shrugs. “I’m just curious as to what Sasha wants, that’s all. I’m trying to get to know your friend better. Isn’t that what brothers ought to do?” He glances back at me. “You can’t be that old, right? Early twenties?”
“Twenty,” I admit. “So I’m in no rush.”And I’m in love with your brother,I think ruefully to myself, but I don’t dare let that slip out.
“You should have a different man in your bed every night at that age–or at least one who can keep you too busy to worry about other people’s children,” Art says with a grin. I can feel the tension rolling off of Max in waves. When his knife stabs down into the lamb–which is tender enough that he doesn’t even technically need it–both of us jump.
“I’m happy with my life as it is,” I say smoothly, forking up a bite of vegetables. “And I don’t need to change anything about it just now.”
“But eventually.” Art keeps pressing, and I can feel a flicker of my own irritation at his pushiness.He’s the youngest,I remind myself.Probably the most spoiled as a child. He is used to getting what he wants–including the attention he wants.