Page 12

“H oney, I’m home!” I call into the suite.

There’s no sugar coating it—today sucked. All of the changes that were made to the shooting schedule set off a chain reaction of chaos that bled into every aspect of the project. The entire crew was on edge. Sometimes this happens when we get in the thick of filming. There are a lot of opinions and expectations. It’s a huge machine with a lot of moving parts, so when the machine gets jostled unexpectedly it can lead to… feelings. That’s a kind way to say it. At one point today, Christopher’s face turned dark red and I swear I saw veins in the shape of devil horns pop out on his forehead.

So, rough day. All I want is to collapse on the couch next to Sunny and watch a mindless movie. I check the time on my phone. 10:47 p.m. I hope she’s up for it. It’s late, tomorrow is another early day, and it’s her birthday.

“Girls?” I call into the darkness. I know Sunny is a woman, but what am I supposed to do here? I imagine calling out, “Woman and girl?” or “Sunny and Immy?” but they’re both a mouthful.

When there’s no answer I try again. “Ladies?” There we go. That feels right .

I pause at Immy’s temporary room. It’s quiet, but there’s dim light coming under the door. Twisting the knob slowly, I open it just enough to peek inside. The bedside lamp is the only light in the room, casting a warm glow around a scene that makes my ribcage feel way too small for whatever my heart and lungs are doing.

Sunny is propped against the headboard, with a huge picture book flopped on her tan legs as though she fell asleep mid-story. Immy is tucked under her arm, her mouth drooping open, and Sunny’s glasses sliding down her nose. My daughter’s wild, white-blonde curls are damp and tamed into two neat braids on either side of her pink cheeks. She looks peaceful and childlike, not like the mini-adult she so often tries to be. Hairy is curled in a huge ball on the carpet next to the bed, dead to the world.

Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I tiptoe closer to get a picture. I don’t want to forget this. I frame the shot and capture the image, immediately sending the photo to my mother because nothing makes her happier than seeing her granddaughter content. Selfishly, I also know this will earn me some much-needed goodwill.

I stare at the photo on my phone screen. This one's a keeper—everything about it. I zoom in, since it’s a cheap way to get a better look at Sunny without gawking at her in real life. Objectively speaking, Sunny is beautiful. Her face is perfectly proportioned and symmetrical. Her lips are full and pink, and her dark eyelashes are long. Technically speaking, she’s a knockout. Perfection. Whatever.

It’s her hair that gets my attention tonight, though. It’s twisted into two braids that match Imogen’s. Sunny has been so good for her. It’s strange to think about, but if I could’ve chosen the traits I want in a mother for Imogen, Sunny has all of them. She is incredible. And those braids make me think other distracting thoughts. Let’s just say, if Oliver could read my mind right now, he’d burst through the wall like the Kool-Aid man. But when I zoom in, I notice something on her face. My eyes flick to the woman on the bed and I step closer to inspect in real life.

A few long scratches run down her cheek, surrounded by swollen red skin. I scan the rest of her and see that her knees are also marred with angry crimson gashes that look fresh. I don’t like this. I want to erase it all with my fingertips. I don’t like seeing her hurt. Everything inside of me is screaming, “Who did this to you?!” like some dumb romance movie cliché.

But it’s true.

I need to know who or what did this to Sunny so I can destroy it.

“Are you mad?” Immy’s soft voice breaks the silence, startling me.

“Hey, Im,” I smile at her. “I’m not mad. Why would I be?”

“Your face looks pretty mad,” she whispers. It’s obvious she’s trying not to wake Sunny, which is sweet. She pulls the glasses off the end of her nose and hands them to me the way kids do when they’re done with something. I look at the frames in my hand. How can an innocuous object turn sexy so fast when it’s on Sunny’s face?

“I’m kinda wondering what happened to her cheek and her knees. How’d she get all scratched up?”

“I guess Hairy pulled her down.”

“Hairy did this?” I don’t mean to, but I raise my voice and it wakes the mutt. Her ears try to perk under their droopy weight. “Hairy,” I scold her. Her tail thumps on the carpet.

“Yep. We went hiking today and Hairy was following me and pulled Sunny down by the leash,” she whispers through a long yawn. “Hairy was chasing me. That’s when Sunny fell down. But guess what?” Her eyes go wide and she draws out the pause for maximum drama. She is definitely my child. “I found out that Sunny has never went on a plane,” she murmurs with the gravity of a CIA informant.

I have about a billion questions, as I often do when I interpret Immy’s stories. First off, I am unreasonably angry with the dog. What do I do with her? Second, how is it possible for someone to reach their twenty-seventh birthday without ever riding in an airplane? That can’t be right .

“She told you she’s never been on a plane?” I circle the bed to sit on the opposite corner from Sunny’s feet.

“Yep. She said she never goes anywhere and her life is super boring.” Another yawn.

“She said that?” I need to know if this is Imogen’s commentary on Sunny’s life, or did Sunny say her life is boring? And why do I care? I guess I hate the thought of Sunny being down about her life. A pure sunshine person deserves to enjoy her life. She shouldn’t be bored.

“Yep. But I told her she needs to go on a plane. Remember when we went to that place where we rode our bikes all over, and they had really good ice cream? We should take Sunny there. Then she could go on a plane. And we could see Mormie, and Sunny could meet her!”

Mackinac Island with my mom—that’s what she’s talking about. I’ve taken her there a few times with my parents and she loves it because it means undivided attention, which is Immy’s favorite thing. My mother, Tillie—or Mormie, as Imogen calls her—is one of those grandparents who makes everything magical. Immy worships her. A familiar twinge of guilt unsettles my stomach. I need to take Immy home more often.

“That would be fun. There are a lot of reasons people don’t go on planes, though. Maybe Sunny wouldn’t be able to go.” Let’s manage those expectations before Immy ends up arranging our marriage. She already wants her to meet my parents and join us on the family vacation, for heaven’s sake.

“I hope she goes. I’m going to call Mormie tomorrow to tell her about it.” Another big yawn, followed by fluttering eyelids. She’s almost out.

“Let me talk to her, okay? Get some sleep, love.” I lean in to kiss her forehead and her eyes stay closed.

I sit on the end of the bed thinking. There are two possibilities: Either this conversation will be forgotten by tomorrow, or Imogen’s newest fixation will be a trip to Mackinac Island with Sunny, and it will be all anyone hears about. Realistically, that would be easier to pull off than tickets to a Harry Styles concert. I don’t know what to hope for. I like Sunny. I want her. I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge that. But setting aside the fact that she’s the nanny and off-limits, I don’t have room in my life for anything—especially anything serious. I’m Indiana Jones-ing, here. But then I look at their matching braids and I want to do something stupid, like get on a plane and take a family vacation.

Ugh . People snap their wrists with rubber bands when they’re breaking bad habits. Maybe every time I have unrealistic, inappropriate thoughts about Sunny I need to crack a whip à la Indiana Jones. That’s probably what it would take to sever this connection I feel to her—a whip crack. Or a bolt of lightning.

I groan. This is insane. She’s just a woman. I meet new, beautiful women literally every day. I am acting like a moronic, hormone-addled teenager.

But she is unlike any woman I’ve ever met. Sunny is… Sunny. She’s pure sunshine.

“Anders?” Sunny’s sleep-roughened voice whispers from her place against the headboard. Her dark eyelashes flutter open as she clears her throat. “Are those my glasses?”

For the love of all that is holy, someone please crack me with a whip.

Instead, the Indiana Jones theme music is playing somewhere in the back of my mind, guilting me out. I pass her glasses to her like they’re a hot potato. She puts them on and I look away in the name of self-preservation. I’m just a man, standing in front of a woman, trying not to have inappropriate glasses-related dreams all night.

“Sorry to wake you, and for getting home so late.” I frown, remembering the day. What a mess. “It was a long one.”

“I’m sorry you had a hard day,” she murmurs as she extricates herself from the bed. She tucks the blankets around Immy. “Did you get your snack? ”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Not yet. I’m starving.” I pull out my phone because the notifications won’t stop. There are multiple texts from my mother, still incoming.

MORMIE

brING ME MY GRANDBABY.

MORMIE

Now.

MORMIE

And who is that gorgeous woman???

MORMIE

I’m guessing she’s the new nanny? Nan didn’t last long, huh?

MORMIE

Please don’t be your usual self with that one. Love you, Sockergris.

My mother always sends texts one after another, machine gun-style. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. It’s how she talks in real life, too.

But I can’t respond now—not when there’s a warm, sleepy-eyed woman smiling at me. Sunny tracks the buzzing of my phone and I shove it in the back pocket of my jeans, where it continues to buzz. My mother is on one tonight.

“Ollie texted. You have an early day tomorrow?” She tries to hide a yawn behind her hand.

I love that she’s calling him Ollie now. It’s like we’re a team, united in our goal to annoy the bejeezus out of him. “Yeah. Sorry about that. You know you’re welcome to sleep here if it’s more convenient.” Yes. For convenience. Where’s that whip? I need it.

“I don’t think so,” she says with a laugh. “Oliver had fire shooting out of his eyes when he caught me here this morning. I bet you got an earful.” I follow her to the living area, where she slides her feet into her sandals. I need to start hiding those things when I walk in the door.

“He tried to give me an earful, but I reminded him that he works for me, and that you and I have a friendly working relationship. I’ll talk to him about laying off you.” I’m hungry, bordering on hangry, thinking about the conversation I had with Oliver this morning. I don’t want Sunny to leave, so I wander over to the fridge mid-sentence to grab my snack. She can’t leave if I keep talking. She’s my conversation prisoner. “Big day for you tomorrow. Or are you one of those women who hates her birthday? Should I not say anything about it?” I peel the Snack sticker off the container and toss it on the counter.

“Not at all. I love being showered with gifts and attention. And you’re rich, so expectations are high.”

That startles a laugh out of me. Her tone makes it obvious that she’s joking. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who seeks out elaborate gifts, or even attention, but this feels like a challenge. I can’t wait to knock her off her feet with… something. Tomorrow. I need to get on it. “Oh, I’m all over this. Anders Beck does not mess around when it comes to gifts.”

She covers her reddening face with her hands, “Please tell Anders Beck I was kidding. I’ll feel guilty if you get a gift for me. I’ll be here in the morning and we’ll just have a normal day, okay?”

“Not a chance,” I say around a mouthful of this chickpea tofu snack that is decidedly inedible. I would commit murder for a bag of Skittles. I drop the plastic container on the counter and make my way to Sunny, who is standing at the door with her bag slung over her shoulder and her hand on the knob. I’m not missing out on Sunny time for that garbage snack. I don’t care how hungry I am.

“Please don’t go crazy. I’m a simple gal.”

“You are anything but simple, Sunny Pratt.” I’m standing way too close to her. She’s not moving away. Before I realize what I’m doing my fingers brush the scratch on her cheek. She sucks in a breath, and I pull away. “Did that hurt?”

“No. ”

“Immy said Hairy did this. What happened?” This is good. Make her tell a story. Keep her here as long as possible.

Once again her cheeks flush pink and I’m consumed by the urge to touch them. So I do. She shudders, but leans into my palm. Her skin is so warm and velvety, it’s impossible to pull my fingers away. She recounts the events of her morning with Imogen, and her soft breath against the inside of my wrist makes my heart jump. What are we doing? Can she feel this?

She sighs and the warmth of it teases my skin. “Anyway, I caught up to Im and we had a good talk. She’s pretty homesick, but she’s easy to redirect.”

I can tell she’s leaving out details, and there’s a tornado of urgent thoughts twisting in my mind—a beautiful woman who is standing so close that her candy scent is driving me crazy, a homesick daughter, and one stupid, stupid dog. I respond to the easiest of the three, fully distracted by the woman in front of me. “I’m sorry Hairy did this to you. I’ll find a kennel for her,” I say offhandedly.

“Aw, you can’t do that. Hairy was only worried about Imogen. That’s why she took off after her, I think. She was doing her dog job.” Sunny tilts her head to the side, leaning into my hand. “And Imogen relies on her a lot. I’ve been watching them. She’s like an emotional support animal for your daughter. She’s tuned in to her moods and calms her down.”

Huh. I haven’t noticed that. I always just thought of her as the big, dopey family dog. I had one of those growing up—an Irish setter named Fisher who was even dopier than Hairy, if that’s possible. His favorite pastime was to dig my boxer shorts out of the laundry and eat them. I’ve held Hairy to a Fisher expectation level. I guess I need to pay closer attention to her. It’s something to think about at another time. Like, when Sunny isn’t standing twelve inches away from me wearing those risqué glasses.

“All right. The dog can stay, but she’ll be receiving a harsh lecture from me in the morning,” I grumble .

Her voice lulls like she’s falling asleep where she stands, held up by my hand. “Every time I lecture Hairy, your daughter reminds me that she can’t understand me.” Her dark lashes flutter, and the breath from her soft laughter tickles my wrist.

Did she just fall asleep upright? I’m a human male. This is too much. I squeeze my eyes closed and release a slow breath. I count backwards from ten. Nothing helps. She needs to go home. Now.

“You have goosebumps,” she murmurs, tracing a line down my forearm with her fingertip.

Her voice almost shatters my weak effort at self-control. I wrap my free hand around her wrist, holding it in place. If she keeps doing that, whatever remains of my logic and restraint will evaporate. I search her big, brown eyes with mine. She’s blinking. Nervous. Questioning. And way too pure for a guy like me.

I can’t do this. I’m going to be strong this time. You’re Indiana Jones, you absolute turnip-for-brains.

“Have a good night, Sunny.”

I pull my hand away from her face and turn the doorknob.