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I picked the wrong day to quit doing Coke. The fizzy, caffeinated drink has been my crutch for far too long. I run a health-centered destination spa, for goodness sake. I’m an otherwise health-conscious person. The habit is embarrassing, really.

This morning, my brilliant mind decided that since I have an entire film crew coming to the resort that I run with my brother, I should cut myself off from the one thing that keeps me functional. For my long-term health it’s a smart move, but right now my brain feels like a wadded up dishrag.

Soda isn't the only bad habit I'm trying to break today. I’m also not thinking about the fact that my lifelong celebrity crush, Micah Watson, is starring in the movie that's being filmed here. Meaning, he’s staying in one of our suites. And it’s time for me to give him up, because this isn’t the regular kind of celebrity crush that you can laugh about with friends. My family and friends don't know just how unhealthy my obsession has become. It's adult-woman-writing-our-names-together-in-my-journal bad. I am mature enough to admit that my infatuation has reached an unhealthy level, just not mature enough to take down the poster of him hidden behind the dresses in my closet.

In the ten years since Micah Watson and Anders Beck starred in their first paranormal love triangle blockbuster, the majority of the female world has been divided into two camps—Team Micah or Team Anders.

I’ve been staunchly Team Micah from day one. I secretly own the merchandise. To my everlasting shame, I’ve argued my stance with strangers online. Micah Watson is devastatingly tall, dark and handsome, but also trustworthy, stable, respectful to women, smart—everything Anders Beck is not. I will die a humiliating death on the Team Micah hill.

Like a bad habit, I’ve kept it a secret, a fact which will serve me well in the coming months of having to act normal. I’ve had years of experience hiding the extent of my obsession.

I’ve also signed about two hundred legal documents promising I'll be nothing but discreet and professional for the duration of filming, so I can kick the Micah Watson habit for a few months. Legally, I'm required to. I read the contracts. If I interpreted the jargon correctly, if this shoot goes south, all that will be left of our family-owned resort will be a few broken down golf carts and abandoned buildings while we duke things out in court. My job for the next few months is to cater to the needs of the film crew, lie low, and not fall deeper in love with Micah Watson. Easy peasy.

So, I'm not thinking about him at all. I'm not picturing his big, sculpted arms pulling open the front door any minute now, or his wavy, dark brown hair resting on one of our pillows tonight. I’m not thinking about it so hard that I’m sweating from every pore. I pull my blouse away from my chest to fan myself. Is it hot in here?

The crew is coming in waves, with Micah Watson— Eeek! —Anders Beck, the writer/director, the supporting cast, and all of their entourages supposedly arriving at 1:00, which was twenty-three minutes ago. I just need to get this first round of hoity-toity guests checked in and settled. After that my brain won’t need to function at a high capacity for at least a few hours, when the production crew is scheduled to arrive.

Everything is ready for this non-event that I'm barely thinking about. I have soft music playing, essential oils diffusing in the air, and the fountains trickling. The rooms are immaculately appointed, and our staff is polished and lining the foyer like English house servants awaiting the king. I’m wearing a layer of makeup and my most professional-yet-perky pencil skirt and heels. I spent extra time straightening my long, dark hair. I don't normally dress like this for work, but today isn’t a normal day.

I have meticulously planned every detail to make things perfect for The Micah Watson—and the rest of the cast and crew, of course. My knee is bouncing under my desk like a jackhammer.

On my drive to work I noticed that even Mother Nature is trying to impress our celebrity guests: The sky outside is a perfect robin’s egg blue, contrasting with the coral sandstone cliffs that provide the backdrop of our destination resort. We had a rare rainstorm overnight, so the air smells fresh and the desert flowers are blooming. Everything is perfect. We just need our guests to arrive.

I drum my fingers on the white marble reception desk. This is a terrible time for a splitting headache and brain fog. My mind wanders to the vending machine in the employee break room. It’s stocked with cold bottles of Coke. If I had one now, it would have condensation dripping down the side. It would hiss when I twist off the lid. All I need is one sip. Fizz. Sugar. Caffeine. Happiness. Is my right eye twitching?

Maybe I have time to run down there and grab a drink? I look at the clock. I look at our employees, ready and waiting. What are the odds that our important guests will arrive in the three minutes it will take me to run to the breakroom and shotgun a Coke? I totally have time. I’m already kicking my Micah Watson habit cold turkey. That’s enough self-improvement for one day .

"Be right back."

I stride away from the front desk to the sound of Mercer's gasp behind me. My best friend leads guided hikes and gives welcome tours at the resort, and today is the most important day of her employed life. She looks even more stressed out than I feel, which is abnormal for her. Nothing fazes Mercer.

"Dude, where are you going?" her frazzled holler echoes down the wide, tiled corridor.

I can feel the eyes of our other employees on me. I'm their boss. They won't say anything. Mercer, on the other hand—

"If you leave me here alone and they walk through that door, you are dead to me."

“I won’t be long!” I call down the hall.

Less than two minutes later, I’m back at my post behind the front desk and my belly is full of cold, sparkling, heavenly cola. I can already feel the happy chemicals buzzing around my body. Instant improvement.

“See, I told you it would be fine,” I reassure Mercer with a glance at the clock. 1:29. They’re a half an hour late. This isn’t a big deal. Our guests arrive late all of the time. I’m not going to let it get to me.

It’s totally getting to me.

I don’t love this about myself—the obsessive need for everything to run on a precise schedule—but I can’t help it. I prefer predictability. Stability. All of the -ilities. I love organizing things to perfection, that way everything in my life functions smoothly and there are no surprises. I straighten my magnetic name tag, then drum my fingers on the marble counter again.

“Sunny Pratt!” Mercer hisses my full name like curse words, reaching across my desk and slapping a hand over mine to hold it in place. “Stop that! Your stress is contagious, man.” Her eyes are darting around more than usual.

“I’m not stressed, I just—” URP!

Did I just stress burp? Oh no . No, no, no .

I guzzled that Coke way too fast. I realize I am feeling a little queasy. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that soda on an empty stomach. In all of my hustle to prepare for our guests I had skipped lunch. I just need to eat a little something to settle my stomach.

Mercer and a few of my employees are tittering as I dig through the front desk drawers in search of a quick snack. Tic Tacs? Blech. I rummage deeper, past some mystery cords and the rubber band ball. Dusty granola bar? Pass.

I need to organize these drawers. This is ridiculous. I lean down to open the bottom drawer and find Mercer’s stash of Red Vines, and just in time. My belly is like an agitating washing machine preparing for the spin cycle. I stuff a piece of licorice in my mouth, intending to chew and swallow the entire thing before I sit up and resume my post like the professional I am. While I chew, I arrange the contents of the drawer so that it’s less chaotic.

As I sort paperclips according to size, I stuff another rope of licorice in my mouth sideways. Geez, this is delicious. Why don’t I eat candy more often? It’s doing something for my stress level, but this drawer is utterly absurd. Why is there a single black sock in here? A throat clears and I realize there’s a person standing in front of my desk. I startle, slam the drawer shut, and straighten.

And Anders Beck is standing in front of me.

Holy crap, Anders Beck is smiling at me.

Unfortunately, I still have a Red Vine hanging out the corners of my mouth like the tusks of a walrus.

I yank at the licorice and throw it under the desk where it lands on the tile with a thunk.

Why? Why, why, why am I the way that I am? I silently berate myself. I rarely eat candy, and the one time I’m stuffing it into my face like a raccoon in a trash can, a major Hollywood heartthrob catches me. I guess I should be grateful. At least it wasn't Micah Watson who caught me in walrus mode .

It's just Anders Beck, and he is grinning straight at me. The force of his megawatt smile almost knocks me on my behind. I’ve always conceded that he’s a handsome man, but in person he’s surprisingly, painfully perfect. His dark blonde hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, the waves brushing his collar. I'm learning just now that even the most detestable of celebrities is beautiful in real life.

Strong, square, perfectly stubbled jaw? Check.

Ice-blue eyes? Obviously.

Single dimple on his right cheek? Swoon.

Drool-worthy muscles? Hot dang.

Then, in the corner of my eye I spot a profile I’d recognize anywhere.

Micah Watson.

Micah Watson is in the building. I might faint.

“I’m going to faint,” I mumble, making the man in front of me chuckle.

Micah Watson’s big arms—his best feature, according to the brackets I made when I was sixteen—are folded across his chest as he strides past my desk without even a glance my way. I can’t stop the smile that overtakes my face because the man I’ve been daydreaming about since I was fourteen years old is standing three feet away from me. Some part of my brain registers surprise that he came into the building for this part of the process. I figured I’d be dealing with his people, or his people’s people. Not that I’m complaining, because look at him .

To protect my sanity, I was counting on seeing less of Micah. We would deal with his assistant, his manager, or whoever, and he would stay far away from me, closed off safely in his suite. And yet he’s right there, scratching the back of his head and flexing his indecently exposed bicep in front of God and everyone. I fan my face. Is our air conditioner broken?

Someone’s throat clears and my eyes dart to Anders, whose amused smile never seems to leave his mouth. That’s when I realize I’m ogling, and more than one pair of eyes is fixed on me. Because Anders isn’t alone. There’s a man to his right with black hair and black, thick-framed glasses hiding a pair of dark eyes. He’s got strong Darth Vader vibes, and his expression says he is not amused.

“Checking in,” are his only words. I swear I can hear heavy, modulating breathing through some kind of mechanical apparatus.

I better take care of him before he Force-chokes me.

“Oliver Jones,” he adds, like it should have been obvious and I am a moron.

Ah. Anders’ manager. We’ve spoken on the phone multiple times and we’ve been on a first-name email basis. I didn’t picture him being so stuffy. And Sith-like. Well, two can play at that game. I’ve been training for this my whole life.

I stuff my infatuation with Micah deep, deep in my heart. I smash it into a box, lock the box, and incinerate the key. He’s just another guest. I can hyperventilate about all of this in a few months, when filming wraps and they leave. I’ve got this.

Then I hear Micah's deep voice echoing through the foyer. I can’t make out what he’s saying through the chatter around me. Annoying. But oh, the sound of it.

I haven't got this.

Yes you do, Sunny. Pull yourself together.

I smooth my skirt, nod, and smile. “Yes, of course. Welcome to Nizhóní, Mr. Jones.” I use the same tone I use with all of the difficult-to-please guests who have come and gone over the years. I can do this. See how blasé and professional I am?

"That's how you say that word? Nizhóní?" Anders' gruff voice is so deep and low I feel it in my bones.

"Yes, An—Mr. Beck." I shake off the trance I'm in from the sound of Micah’s husky voice that, frustratingly, I still can’t make out. This is going to be a deliciously long and difficult couple of months. "My mother chose the name. Her mother was Navajo and it’s a tribute to her. It means beautiful. "

I've repeated this detail to many guests over the years, and the old habit has a calming effect on my heart. It also serves as the reminder I need to do my job well and keep things professional. I love this resort. It is my home and our family legacy. I’ve been running these halls since I was old enough to run. I stole snacks from the kitchen and swam in the pool until I was old enough to get my first job here folding laundry. Hundreds of people have come here and found rest and rejuvenation, and I take pride in that. I love this place.

"Fitting," he says with a wink that temporarily fries my brain.

So much for my calm heart. Fetch my smelling salts, I feel a swoon coming on.

Wait, what? No, no, no. This is Anders Beck—the buffoon, the womanizer, the rapscallion. He isn’t supposed to have this effect on me. He doesn’t. Geesh, the man has a powerful wink.

Mercer is standing behind the men, watching the interaction with wide eyes. She mouths, “Oh. My. Gosh!” and pantomimes what I think is a large, sexy man with burly muscles, winking. Her little game of charades is vaguely crude and definitely not appropriate for work.

I feel myself blush and shake my head at her. You’re going off of all celebrity crushes cold turkey, Sunny , I remind myself. In fact, that should be my nickname: Cold Turkey Sunny. I can’t let the lethal charisma that radiates from this man affect me. It won’t, because I’m Cold Turkey Sunny. She is a serious businesswoman. Nothing affects her.

More groups arrive and my other employees greet them and start the check-in process. Chatter fills the lobby and I silently monitor Micah Watson and his small entourage bowing to his every need. Crowds part around him and all eyes are fixed on him. The man is modern American royalty. It’s just the reminder I need of who I am and what my role is today.

Miraculously, I navigate the check-in process with the men in front of me efficiently. It’s streamlined, since most things were taken care of by the production company weeks ago. Except …

“It looks like we’re missing some of your party? Anders, will your daughter and nanny be joining you?” We have a woman named Nan and Anders’ five-year-old daughter listed on our paperwork.

Oliver answers for Anders, his tone robotic, “Imogen and Nanny Nan are on their way, just later than we thought. They're accompanied by Mr. Beck's personal protection, as you'll recall from my email.”

I refuse to smile at the fact that the nanny’s name is Nan. I am a statue. I am the picture of poise and maturity. Poise and maturity, dang it.

Nanny Nan , my brain betrays me. NANNY NAN .

I feel a smile creeping onto my lips and I employ every muscle in the bottom half of my face to stop it. Nanny Nan , my brain taunts a third time. It’s not even funny, but because I’m not allowed to laugh—and I’ve just downed a Coke and a bunch of sugar—I laugh.

I wish I could say it was a charming, demure giggle. Nope. Because I fought so hard to contain it, the laugh bursts out of my nose in the form of a snort that echoes through the corridor like a gunshot. Several heads whip my direction, including the well-coiffed head of Micah Watson. He barely turns my way with a perturbed glare, and I die a little inside. I bet he’s so tired from traveling all day.

Even Mercer, the queen of the snort laugh, is wide-eyed. Not once in our eighteen year friendship, or in my twenty-six years of life, have I made a sound like that.

Here lies Sunny Pratt, who died of humiliation after snort-laughing in front of People’s Sexiest Man Alive.

But then Anders’ face brightens with a smile that makes my heart stop. His crystal blue eyes look straight into mine, like I’m his partner in crime. “Right? I laugh every time he calls her Nanny Nan. I told you it’s funny.” He shoves Oliver’s shoulder, “Just call her Nan.”

Oliver releases a heavy breath. “She is the nanny. Just maintaining a professional boundary.” Then he mutters under his breath, “One of us should. ”

Suddenly I’m very interested in this Nan person and her relationship with Anders Beck. I imagine him coming home to her after a long day of filming and settling onto the couch to watch a movie with her and Imogen. Imogen falls asleep and Anders makes an excuse to put his arm around Nan. They cuddle. She plays with his hair.

Ugh. Oliver is right. Anders needs to learn boundaries. And Nan needs to keep her grubby paws out of Anders’ hair.

Wait. Why do I care if this woman throws herself at this guy? If she’s willing to be taken advantage of by an obvious womanizer, that’s on her. And you’re in love with Micah, so none of that matters. Except you’re not even in love with him for the next few months. You are abstaining. Cold Turkey Sunny, remember?

My horrible daydream-turned-lecture is interrupted by Oliver, “Nanny Nan will arrive in a few hours with Imogen. I’ll give her instructions on how to find their room.”

I can’t help but match Oliver’s task-oriented energy, because honestly, when my senses aren’t being assaulted by the presence of multiple A-list celebrities, I am a task-oriented person. The real me is in here somewhere, hiding behind the bumbling teenager I’m impersonating. This is me pulling it together.

“Perfect.” I smooth my skirt—mostly because my palms have gotten sweaty—and my mind is blown when I catch Anders’ clocking the movement. My hands freeze on my legs, “Mercer will give you a short tour of the property and show you to your rooms. Meanwhile, Eric will handle your luggage.” Is Anders still looking at my hands on my legs? Did I get something on my skirt? “I hope you enjoy your time here.”

“I think we will,” Anders says with another one of his killer winks.

I realize a few things at this moment: One, Anders Beck knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s a terrible flirt, and it means absolutely nothing. He’s a natural born charmer, which I should’ve seen coming. A guy doesn’t become the king of the red carpet with the personality of a wet sock. And two: If having Micah Watson on the premises doesn’t kill me, this man will.

I paste on a phony smile, pretending to be unaffected by this tidal wave of charisma. “Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Jones.” And with barely a nod toward Anders Beck I tack on, “Mr. Beck,” like an afterthought.

Oliver appraises me with kind eyes after this interaction, and I notice that the Sith Lord isn’t bad looking when he isn’t scowling. I think I’ve won his approval. “Thank you, Sunny.” He spins around, “Which one of you is Mercer?”