Raising My Boss's Child

Chapter 7: Paying a visit

KARIM'S POV

Rita was annoying.

Before, I just didn't notice the work of my assistant. She was always at hand, and at the same time, she knew how to stay out of the way. She sat in her little room like Cinderella and appeared at the first call.

She had ready answers to all my questions and ties to match every shirt. Before, I didn't even notice her, and now I realized how much I needed her.

"I need Dasha," I said thoughtfully.

"Missing your plain assistant?" Damir smirked.

I turned slowly, not even having time to say anything, and Damir raised his hands as if surrendering.

"I'll let you know when I need your criticism of my employees' appearances," I said. "And now shut up."

I couldn't say that Dasha was ugly. She was just inconspicuous and faceless. And next to her, Rita's appearance was also annoying.

Rita was too bright and too loud.

As soon as I thought about her, she walked in with a stack of documents and dumped them on the table with an loud crash.

If it had been Dasha, we wouldn't have noticed her.

"As long as you surround yourself with pretty girls," Damir shook his head. "That's all you'll ever get. You need to be smarter, Karim. Pretty girls are used to getting their way in other ways."

Surprisingly, I agreed with him on this.

It was already evening outside, and we could have gone to a restaurant for dinner and called it a day.

In a couple of days, we would have a tiring and exhausting trip, so it would be good to rest before then.

"Let's go have dinner," Damir suggested.

"You go ahead, I have some things to do," I replied.

The decision came spontaneously. I left the office, and Rita was standing at the secretary's desk, giggling.

Who even came up with the idea that assistants are allowed to giggle? Once again, irritation rose inside me, like silt from the bottom of a pond. And I still had to spend four days in Europe with Rita.

I remembered an incident when Dasha kicked out a drunk girl from my hotel room during one of those trips because it turned out she knew some Italian. To this day, I wonder what she said to her?

The toy store was still open. I walked through the aisles.

What do little kids like? He's so serious, maybe I should get him a volume of Dostoevsky instead? I could easily have guessed wrong with a toy, but I knew what all boys, without exception, liked.

A scooter. There was a whole row of them. All of them were bright and beautiful.

In my childhood, even though it was well-off and comfortable, there wasn't such beauty. I took the most expensive model, beautiful, in a boyish color, plus it could be turned into something else.

"Is this suitable for a two or three-year-old child?" I asked the salesperson.

"That's exactly the age group it's designed for," the salesperson replied with a toothy smile.

I refused to get a loyalty card, partly because it was my first time in a children's store, and maybe my last, and partly because I knew she would call.

I didn't trust women whose faces showed that they wanted to get a rich man.

At my request, they put a silver gift bow on the scooter. I was on my way to Dasha's place, and I had her address saved just in case, even though I had never been there.

In the back seat, the scooter's chrome details sparkled, and I felt pretty silly.

The elevator was cramped. I shared it with a woman who had three bags of groceries, and I had the scooter, leaving just enough room to breathe. Fortunately, I got off first.

The hallway was long, with a lot of apartment doors. I found the right one and rang the bell. Then I rang again. And finally, the door opened.

"Karim balkov?" Dasha asked, surprised.

She was wearing a robe. A huge, fluffy one, so huge that it was impossible to guess what was underneath. But that wasn't my goal. What surprised me was her hair.

Dasha had obviously just come out of the shower, her hair was slightly damp, curly, and there was a lot of it, falling over her shoulders and shimmering with a hint of red.

"Dasha," I said instead of a greeting. "You have hair."

"Yes," she agreed. "To be honest, I was born bald, and until I was a year and a half old, I couldn't boast of having any hair. But since then, it's grown, and it's always been with me. Anything else you'd like to discuss?"

I was a bit taken aback. Dasha kept surprising me with her behavior.

She was too bold, and motherhood seemed to affect her in a strange way.

I even thought, maybe it's better if she stays on vacation until she becomes more comfortable and easier to deal with again? Then I remembered that I would have to spend four days in Europe with Rita, and I resolutely walked into the apartment.

"I'm just used to seeing all your hair in a bun," I explained as I walked in. "I came here not to discuss this. I realized that I was rude to your child, and I wanted to make it up to him. Can I see him?"

She raised her eyebrows in surprise and stepped back a little—the entryway was quite narrow.

"I'll call him, but don't be offended if senya doesn't want to talk to you."

She glanced meaningfully at the scooter in my hands and walked into the room.

I noticed her bare feet in addition to her hair. Unnoticeable Dasha walked around barefoot, and for some reason, it amused and surprised me.

"Senya, this is my big boss," Dasha said as she returned with the child.

"He was very angry this morning, and now he's come because he hasn't given up hope of getting your mom back to work. Do you want to take his gift?" She asked him.

The boy took a step towards the scooter, which I had placed on the floor. He was wearing striped socks, shorts, and a t-shirt, and he looked even smaller than he had in the morning.

He looked at the scooter, and I looked at the child. I could see that he liked the scooter. The desire to possess it burned in his eyes. Maybe in his short life, he had never seen anything so beautiful. He even reached out to touch it but pulled his hand back.

He looked at Dasha and went back into the room.

"I'm sorry," Dasha apologized. "He doesn't trust people, and he's cautious about all gifts."

"It's okay," I replied. "It's okay, he's a smart boy, and he's doing the right thing. I'll leave the scooter here, and eventually, he'll get used to it and want to ride it."

"Thank you."

We were silent for a minute. I looked around—I was curious about how my assistant lived.

The apartment was small but very cozy. It smelled like vanilla—something must have been baking in the kitchen. And I had missed dinner...

"Dasha..." I began.

"No," she shook her head. "Karim Balkov, I can't go to Europe with you, even if you hire a dozen nannies. You see how hard it is for a child to trust people.

"How did you know I came to invite you?"

"I've lived your life for two years," Dasha smiled. "And now I need to live my own. Goodbye, Karim Balkov."

The door closed behind me, cutting off the little boy in striped socks, the vanilla scent, and Dasha with her surprisingly wavy and almost red hair, as well as her bare feet.

I stood there for a minute, as if trying to detach myself from all of this, when my phone rang. It was Damir.

"Karim!" he said excitedly.

"I have news!"