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S unny is right. I can’t stop fidgeting. Every molecule inside me is fighting to pull her close and my body is humming with unspent energy. But Oliver’s obnoxious voice is in my head, holding me back. Look, don’t touch. Easy for you to say, Oliver. Everything is easier for an android.

But he’s correct, as androids tend to be. I can’t afford to lose my mind right now. Making this film count is important, because of what comes after it. A huge movie project has been promised to me, contingent on the success of this film. It’s independent of Micah Watson, the story is fresh, the role I’ve been offered has depth, and I am perfect for it. Imagine it’s 1981, and I’ve been offered the role of Indiana Jones. That is my life right now. At least, that’s what my agent, the director, the producers, and Oliver say. This job has the potential to change the trajectory of my career. Iconic role. Oscar buzz. Movie history being made. Blah, blah, blah. How are Sunny’s hands so soft? That’s all I care about at the moment. And what would she do if I kissed her?

When she ran her finger down the length of my hand, it weakened whatever remained of my self control. Now I have to touch her. That’s all. I settle for covering her hands in mine and taking deep breaths to relax. It’s not helping things that her huge, brown eyes are blinking at me. I’m looking, with only a little touching. I need to calm down. What I wouldn’t give to belt out some Mariah Carey right now.

“Y-your birthday is this weekend?” I clear my throat. “Doing anything fun?”

Her sigh is shaky, and her small hands don’t move. “My mom is throwing a party for me. She always does. I figured I would take Imogen. It’s low key—just family and a few friends. Is that okay?”

“Is it okay to take my daughter to a party where I haven’t been invited? Nope.” When her face falls I add, “But only because I want to go. When’s the party?”

“Sunday afternoon. My mom usually makes a big dinner every weekend. This one will just have cake at the end. No big deal. You’re not missing anything. Besides, you have to work.” Her insufferable doe eyes blink, blink, blink at me.

Why is she trying to talk me out of a party? “Yeah, but that’s not the point. You could have invited me.” I blink at her the way she’s blinking at me. Let’s see how she likes it.

“You think I should have invited The Anders Beck to my boring family birthday dinner, knowing full well you’d have to shoot me down anyway?” She arches an eyebrow, but her hands haven’t budged. She’s not that annoyed.

“Yeah.”

“You know what would happen if you showed up at our family dinner?” She pulls her hands away and mimics a bomb exploding. At least, I think that’s what she’s doing. Maybe it’s fireworks.

“That” — I imitate her fireworks, including the sound effect — “sounds fun to me. You’re right, though. I gotta work.” At the moment, I don’t remember why I work so much.

Indiana Jones , Oliver’s voice reminds me in my head.

“Gotta make those blockbuster movies that keep Imogen knee deep in chicken nuggets.” She nudges me with her elbow .

I nudge her back.

She nudges me back. Hard.

I can’t respond in kind, so I pull her in, wrapping my arms around her. I squeeze, “Let’s play nice. Your elbows are like little swords.” She melts against my chest, and my breath catches. She wasn’t supposed to give in so easily.

“You’re the one that’s not playing nice.” Her voice is weak, and I wonder if I’m squeezing too tight.

I don’t want to loosen my grip, but I force myself. What is she talking about? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman with her, despite the things I want to do. The irony is, I’ve finally found a woman I want to touch because of reasons other than how she looks, and I’m not allowing myself to do it. I don’t know myself anymore—and maybe that’s a good thing.

“I’m being nice.” I tighten my arms again. Maybe I’m a lost cause. “I just don’t trust your elbows.”

She squirms like she’s trying to get away, but if anything she’s only moving closer. I’m not stopping her. I doubt Indiana Jones himself could summon the will to stop her. I can smell her hair, and it’s far more enjoyable than the skunk situation she had going on a few days ago. She smells sweet, like fruity candy—sort of like Skittles, which happen to be my favorite.

I take a deep breath in through my nose. “You smell like yellow Skittles,” I mumble with a sigh.

Her laughter vibrates against my chest. “Yellow Skittles, specifically? Is that a good thing?”

I sniff her shiny, dark hair like I’m on a fact-finding mission. “It’s… torment.”

I feel the warmth of her exhale. “That doesn’t—”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, effectively dousing whatever was starting between us. Sunny retreats to her side of the couch, her eyes fixed on the movie like there will be a quiz later .

“Sorry.” I pull the phone from my pocket, checking the screen. Oliver. I swear the guy has a radar for fun, and he must find and destroy all signs of it. I swipe to accept the call. “Hey, Ollie.”

“Hey, man.” He sounds more peeved than usual. “We have some changes tomorrow.” Then he goes on for a solid five minutes about a location issue, which started a domino effect of chaos. Shooting changes. Costume and makeup issues. Rearranged schedule. It’s a pain in the butt, but not unusual. It means we’re starting way too early tomorrow, and I feel a tinge of guilt for keeping Sunny out so late. It also means I’ll be free early on Sunday, which opens up my schedule for things like a birthday party and a home cooked meal. Don’t mind if I do .

Oliver’s voice is buzzing in my ear like a mosquito, “...which means that you have less than zero time for your usual bull—”

“Ollie, I get it. I’m focused. Lay off.” I say this even as Sunny’s feet tuck almost under my leg on the cushion. She’s using the arm rest as a pillow, her brown hair cascading over the side of the couch in a way that can only be described as extremely distracting. With all of that hair out of the way, her slender neck is ready and waiting. I think I can see her soft pulse under the velvety skin below her jaw.

He snorts in my ear, making me jump. “I’ve seen Nanny Sunny. And I know you. You can’t help yourself around beautiful women, and now you have one under your roof. Easy access. You’re going to need hourly reminders from me.” I scramble to lower the volume on my phone, pressing the tiny button no less than forty times. I hope she didn’t hear that.

“Ollie, it’s been years. Lay off.” I need to redirect him, because the best way to get Oliver off my back is to talk about work. It comforts him. The guy loves work. He should marry it. “I have a question about tomorrow.”

I regret the decision when ten more minutes pass and Oliver is droning about our schedule, then ideas to make our day more efficient, all peppered with unsolicited input on my performance. They’re good thoughts. But I still want to cuddle with the nanny. I fake a yawn in Oliver’s ear.

He groans. “How were you nominated for an Academy Award?”

“Because I have a great manager.”

“That’s right. Now get some sleep, dingus.” He hangs up on me.

I drop back against the cushions, tossing my phone to the side with a huff. I remember too late that Sunny had stretched out beside me while Oliver was yapping. My phone lands screen down, squarely on her chest—and not on the bony, ribcage part of her torso. It’s the soft, curvy part that I am absolutely not thinking about. When she doesn’t yell at me, bat the phone away, or even twitch, I realize she is out like a light. Her full lips are parted and I think I spot a little drool starting.

This woman is going to kill me.

What a conundrum. I should wake her up so she can go home, but she looks so peaceful. Her hands are tucked under her cheek in the praying position. She’s too innocent for a guy like me. The little devil on my shoulder tells me to let her sleep because she’s too tired to drive, and she’ll have to be back here in seven hours anyway. Really, the kind thing to do is let her get the rest she needs. It’s decided, then.

I snag a blanket off the uncomfortable arm chair and tuck it around her, starting at her feet, and begging the universe to keep her asleep. She doesn’t budge. This girl is a deep sleeper. When I get to her shoulders and see my phone on her chest, I freeze. There’s a chance I can hook the black case with my pinky finger and pull it off of her like I’m fishing. There’s also a solid chance that if I try that, she’ll wake up with my hand grazing her boob.

I guess my phone is hers now.

Turning off the lights and the TV, I force myself into my bedroom. I want to stay with Sunny. She is exactly what her name implies—straight sunshine—and I’m like a wilted houseplant that’s been living in a dark room. Everything inside me wants to pivot toward her and drink her in. Instead, I faceplant on my bed and groan into the pillow. Get your crap together, Indiana Jones.