Page 16

“G o,” Christopher says nonchalantly. He isn’t an “Action!” guy. When it’s time to shoot we get a simple “go” that we won’t hear if we aren’t listening. It forces everyone to pay attention, I guess. Smart man.

At Christopher’s quiet word, I pull on my metaphorical Paul Jamison mask and run. And run, and run, and run. This character is constantly running. It’s a risk you take as an actor, choosing a role in an action movie. There will be cardio. This is the four thousandth take of this shot and I’m near death. How many angles does Christopher need of us barrelling through the desert? By my count, about four thousand.

My co-star is barely breaking a sweat. I swear the guy’s a machine. We reach our marks and skid to a halt. Micah yanks my arm to drag me to a halt.

“Here!” he yells, his breath heavy in my ear.

I pause.

“Cut.” Christopher says from his place on the truck.

I’m heaving for breath, but my shoulders relax. That was it. I can feel it. It’s been a grueling day, but I think we finally have it and I can go back to my suite. I grin without thinking .

It’s Sunny time.

“That’ll do. Good work, everyone.” Everyone starts to gather their things and wrap up the day, but Christopher straightens the weathered baseball cap on his head. Uh oh. That’s a move I recognize.

“Anders, let’s talk.” He doesn’t sound pleased.

Micah’s assistant passes him a white towel and he uses it to mop his dry forehead. “Anders Beck to the principal’s office,” he whines, mimicking an old-timey school secretary. He passes the towel back to Frankie without a thank you. “I heard about Sunday night.”

“Thanks, Frankie,” I say to his assistant. Someone should acknowledge her. She’s been graceful in response to Micah’s thankless dismissal since day one.

Frankie walks off in the direction of Micah’s waiting golf cart and I turn to my co-star. “Please don’t comment on my personal life. Let’s focus on work.”

One side of his mouth hitches up in a sardonic smile. “Are you capable of that?”

I count backwards from ten. The audacity of this guy. I’ve been here. I’m giving one hundred percent without complaint, which is more than I can say for him. And besides being seriously dehydrated and coated in a thick layer of sand and sweat, I probably developed stress fractures in my legs from what we did today.

“Care to clarify?” I ask. My calm tone does not match the irritation I’m feeling.

Before he can answer, Christopher shouts from the bed of the truck he’s been working from. “Anders. Let’s go.”

“Have fun in detention,” Micah sing-songs as I walk away.

How many days left in this shoot? I’ve had difficult co-workers who come and go—active addicts, lazy bums, perfectionists, the full range—but Micah is like a permanent rock inside my shoe. I try to shake off the annoyance as I reach Christopher and hop onto the flatbed truck.

“What’s up? ”

Christopher pulls off his ratty cap and curls the bill in his hands before tugging it back onto his head. “Something is off with you today.”

“How so?” I don’t mean to sound like a snarky, punk kid, but I am beat. I’ve literally been running all day. I don’t know what more I could have given.

“I don’t know. You’re here, I get it. You’re putting in the time.” He blows out a long sigh and props his fists on his hips. “But you’re not here here. The magic whatever that makes you Anders Beck is missing. You’ve been counting down the minutes all day long.”

I think back on the work I’ve done with Micah and can’t disagree. I’m not going to throw him under the bus, though, no matter how much I want to. He’s nailing his part. It shouldn’t matter that I’m daydreaming about punching his throat.

Then there’s the matter of Sunny Pratt. I haven’t texted her, even though I want to. I haven’t called her, even though I can think of at least ten valid reasons to dial her number. I have compartmentalized the nanny into a mental box all day like the professional that I am. I’ve only opened that box… a few dozen times. Okay, maybe I’ve been kind of distracted. Sunny has been on my mind constantly. It’s just that I only have so much time with her…

“I’m sorry, Chris.” And I really am. I want to do my best work. This isn’t me. Well, it is, but I’m determined to do better. “I’ll get my head in the game.”

“Yeah, about that. I talked to Oliver.”

“Oliver called you?” That guy better not have taken his issues to Christopher. He’s a pain in the behind, but he’s always kept this stuff between us. Yeah, I butt-dialed him in the middle of making out with Sunny. And yeah, he overheard stuff that’s probably giving him a brain aneurysm. But once I stop dodging him we can talk about this like adults. There’s no need to drag the director and producer into it.

“I called him. I’m concerned about your focus, and so is he.”

I want to be angry. I want to swear. I want to fire Oliver. But I know they’re both right, so I stay silent.

“I hear you’re starting something up with the nanny.”

I run a hand down my sweaty face. I need a shower, and a rewind button for life. “Yeah.” No point in hiding it.

“I can’t comment on your personal life. I will comment on the fact that we’re paying you enough that you should be capable of holding off on any distractions for a few months.” One of his assistants puts a tablet in front of him and he scribbles his signature. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“Yeah. Hearing you loud and clear, Christopher.”

“Good man.” He claps my shoulder. “No more clock-watching. See ya tomorrow.”

My eyes scan the desert for my ride—my rat manager-slash-best-friend should be here in a golf cart somewhere. I can’t get back to my suite fast enough.

“Yeah, I never want to get a call like that again, man,” Oliver gripes as we roll to a stop in front of my suite. It’s been a solid ten-minute lecture from him, and I’ve already heard it from Christopher. “I can’t unhear what I heard on Sunday night.” He shudders. “And I could’ve done without the dressing down from Christopher.”

“I get it,” I snap.

“I don’t think you do,” he snarls. “It’s not only your job you’re messing up. Quit screwing around with the nanny.”

“That’s enough, Oliver,” I bark. “I’m doing my job. You do yours. And remember I’m paying you really well to do it.”

Instant regret. I hate that I just said that. Oliver is my friend and he means well, and reminding him that I provide his paycheck makes me feel like a grade A rump roast. I march into my suite cursing myself and my manager under my breath. I’ll have to call him later to apologize, after I’ve eaten something. I can tell I’m not myself.

When I push through the door, I’m greeted by a soft, slow Harry Styles song filtering from somewhere in the back of the suite. I stand in the dark entry taking deep breaths and willing my annoyance away before I slip off my shoes and wander toward the kitchen. The music is helping.

“Ladies?” I call out gently—I’ve learned Sunny doesn’t appreciate it when I sneak up on her—but no one responds except a crooning Harry Styles.

I turn the corner to the kitchen and find Sunny, her back turned to me, rocking Imogen, whose head is slumped on her shoulder. All forty-three pounds of her look like dead weight in Sunny’s arms. Her mouth is drooping open, with her twiggy legs loosely wrapped around Sunny’s waist. Sunny steps softly from side to side, humming the song close to Immy’s ear, her voice a half note off-key

Screw Oliver. Screw Christopher Marchant. And screw Indiana Jones.

I would stand in front of a train for these two.

I lean against the door jamb, cross my arms, and observe in silence. Sunny’s hair is down today—straight, shiny, and longer than I thought. She’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and a pair of jeans I’ve seen before. They’re the ones that make her hips look extra squeezable. I bite the inside of my cheek. There’s something stuck to Sunny’s butt.

I’m trying—mostly trying—not to let my eyes linger on her back side. In my defense, I have to figure out what’s stuck there. Anyone would. It’s the friendly thing to do. The light is dim in here, but I squint and see that it’s an oblong, white sticker printed with the word “Snack.” It’s adhered perfectly to the right side of her bottom like a label.

Well, that’s appropriate .

I bite my cheek to hold in my laugh as my Snack rocks side to side, humming along with the slow song, while my daughter’s feet dangle around her sides.

Not moving toward her is testing every last shred of my willpower. Then Sunny’s humming turns to whisper-soft singing, and she leans her head on Immy’s. How can I be expected to just stand here? I can’t. I step toward the girls, wrapping my arms around both of them.

Sunny gasps lightly. “You’re home,” she whispers. Her smile is like an unfiltered ray of sunlight in this dark room.

My daughter’s tiny body curls between us as we sway in time with Sunny. If Oliver asks, this isn't dancing. We’re rocking Immy to sleep. Totally innocent. I run my thumb over her waist and nod. I can’t say anything. Who knows what will come out of my mouth? Her lashes flutter closed and she sighs.

“We did a few fast songs. We slowed things down a little and she crashed,” she whispers with her eyes closed, swaying to the music. She won’t look up at me. “We should put her to bed.” She pulls away.

“Yeah.” I follow her into Imogen’s bedroom, folding the blankets and sheets down so Sunny can lay Immy in her bed.

We tuck the blankets into Immy’s sides, standing way too close to each other for this one-person job. Something is off in Sunny’s eyes—maybe longing or sadness—when she smoothes the blankets around my daughter.

I follow Sunny out of the room and close the door softly behind us. She walks straight to the foyer and slides her feet into her sandals. My heart sinks.

“Where are you going?” Yes, desperation. That’s what women love, Anders.

“Home?” she says the word like a question.

Instead of an angel and a devil on my shoulder, there are a dozen voices in my head—Oliver, Christopher, Imogen, and even my mother. Everyone wants something different. Everyone is telling me what to do. I shake my head to clear it.

“Don’t go,” I say on an exhale. I’m begging her and I don’t care.

She sighs. “Oliver came over today.” Her tone is resigned.

She doesn’t need to tell me what he said, I only need to know how he said it. “Was he civil?” He better have been good to her, or I’ll be inventing a hundred ways to skewer him.

“Of course he was. Polite. Straightforward.” She frowns. “He reminded me what’s on the line for you, and for me.”

“He wasn’t rude or threatening?”

She cocks her head to the side, like she’s remembering the conversation. “No. Just blunt. He reminded me to have boundaries with you. And he’s right—”

“I can’t.” I cut her off.

“Can’t what?” There’s hope in her brown eyes.

“Have boundaries with you.”

Now her eyes are tearing up. Not the response I wanted. “Anders…”

“You can’t say my name like that if you expect me to have boundaries with you.”

“Okay, then.” She sighs gustily, swiping at her wet eyes, then digs through her purse on the credenza. She produces a small spiral notebook and a pink pen with a big pom pom on top. “I want to be here. I love taking care of Immy. You need a nanny, no distractions, and for this film to do well. We both need this to work. We need rules.” She opens the notebook and positions the pen to write, like we’re going to do this right here in the foyer.

“Not sure how a rule is different from a boundary, but” — I chuckle — “fine. Let’s sit. We can talk this out and you can make as many rules as you want, Sunflower.”

“No, sir. I’ll stay right here. You are dangerous. In fact, I’ll go first.” She scribbles on the paper. “You aren’t allowed to call me Sunflower. ”

When I look over her shoulder I see that she’s numbering this list of absurd rules. “But your name is Sunflower—”

“Number two.” She’s writing like her pen has a lit fuse. “No more cologne or whatever it is that makes you smell like that.”

Oh yeah? Two can play at this game. “Gimme that.” I snatch the pen and notebook from her hands and scrawl out a rule of my own. She tries to peek before I’m done writing and I have to spin away from her. She’s fast, though. She swipes the book from my hands and turns away from me before I can stop her.

“No glasses? You expect me to be half blind until I’m done nannying Immy?”

I scoff. “Don’t you have contacts? Wear those.”

“Sometimes I can’t! My eyes get dry!” She yanks the pen away from me by the dumb pom pom. “Why do you have to wear cologne? Are you trying to get Micah’s attention?”

That’s a low blow, and she knows it. She knows I spend my day around men and she’s heard me muttering about Micah more than once. She knows the cologne has to be for her. I steal the pen back and jot down another rule that I don’t necessarily want to enforce. “That’s it! No more pencils in your hair! I’m disallowing hair pencils of any kind!”

She gasps in outrage, elbowing my arm and taking the pen. “Fine! Then you have to wear long sleeves. And gloves! Your arms and hands shall not be visible around me.” She’s gaining steam now, scribbling in the notebook with a scowl that I want to kiss off of her face. “And you’re not allowed to sing to Immy in my presence!”

“Pffft! When have I ever done that?”

“You haven’t, but she says you do that sometimes, and I will have none of it.” I swear I see smoke coming from the pen while she writes. Her handwriting is less legible with every rule.

I put my fists on my hips. “This is a list of nos. Gimme some yesses, Sun…ny.” Now that her given name is off limits, it’s all I want to call her. “What am I allowed to do around you? ”

Her lips twist to the side while she thinks. “Be as disgusting as possible.” She grins. “Really stink the place up. Also, you can call me Nanny Sunny. Be inconsiderate and self-absorbed. Forget to text me when you’re going to work late. Stuff like that.”

“No.” I’m not doing that. I give her my most stern look, and I see her melt—not the effect I intended. “But I have an idea.”

“O…kay?”

“We can text each other.” I’m looking forward to this. I’m excited, actually. “I promise, this will be good. It’ll force me to behave myself. Christopher will be happy. And I’ll still get…” I trail off. I can’t say what I’m thinking.

“You’ll still get…?” Her eyebrow quirks.

“I’ll still get time with you.” I take a step backwards. I can’t admit this when I’m standing too close to her. I lower my voice, in case Ollie has the place bugged. “The longer I know you, the more I feel like I need to be around you. You’re sort of addictive.”

Her cheeks turn rosy. “Addictive, huh? That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s terrible.”

She pulls her phone out of her purse and swipes it open. “Okay. I’ll start.” She taps out a quick message. I’m not surprised that she has my number. Oliver gave it to her on day one. She’s just never used it until now, much to my dismay.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I fish it out and scramble to unlock it. Her updated contact name on my phone makes me grin.

SUNFLOWER

I better go home. Have a good night, Mr. Beck.

I shoot a quick, knee-jerk reaction text in return.

ANDERS

Sta y

ANDERS

Please

ANDERS

We can watch a movie

ANDERS

or something

Great. I’m machine gun texting like my mom now. My pride has left the building. Sunny sighs and types her response. A second later my phone dings. She taps her toe on the tile while I read her message.

SUNFLOWER

You are pushing these rules, sir.

I can’t be upright for a minute longer. My body is completely drained. I sit on the tile and prop myself against the cool wall to type my response. I’m surprised when Sunny sits beside me, crossing her legs.

ANDERS

Mr. Beck. Sir. Why so fancy?

I catch her smirking in my periphery.

SUNFLOWER

Because you’re fancy. And you’re my boss, so…

ANDERS

Then I get to call you Sunflower.

While she reads the text I add another rule to our list—no calling me “Sir” or “Mr. Beck.”

She drops her phone on her lap. “You know, the point of these rules is to establish professional boundaries. ‘Sir’ and ‘Mr. Beck’ are both appropriate things to call you.”

“Then so is your legal name, Sunflower. ”

“It doesn’t even sound like a name,” she complains while I scratch her first rule off of the list. “Ugh. Sunny is good. When you call me Sunflower it sounds like a nickname. It sounds way too friendly for the nanny.”

I bump her leg with mine. “I hate that you think of yourself as the nanny.”

She laughs. “I am the nanny.”

My eyes dip to hers. “You’re so good to Imogen—so much better than just a nanny. And last night…” I shake my head. I can’t finish that sentence. Sunny left nanny territory last night, for sure. She is so much more. I wish I could say it. I type out a text instead.

ANDERS

You are so much more.

Oof. That’s a huge thing to admit. I might scare her away, but it’s honest. You get what you get with me—heart on the sleeve, guns blazing, zero-to-sixty. At least I forced myself to omit the heart-eyed, kissy face emoji. I watch her face as she reads my message. She doesn’t hate it. Her lips curl at the corners as she responds.

SUNFLOWER

You are bad news, Anders Beck. I need to leave before I do something un-nannyish.

Well, my curiosity is piqued. I can’t type fast enough.

ANDERS

LIKE WHAT SUNFL9WER???

I smash the send button, leaving my desperate message as-is, in its all-caps, misspelled glory .

Her phone buzzes and she scans the text. “Ugh!” She groans, pushing herself to stand. “You are so much trouble. I’m leaving before you get me fired or we ruin your career or both.”

She holds out a hand like she’s going to pull me to my feet. I take it, jump to a stand, and pull her to me in one swift motion. Wrapping my arms around her, I steal one more long, selfish hug. Oliver can deal.

“Good night, Anders,” she says into my neck. Her warm breath on my skin is torture. She pulls away, her eyebrows are furrowed and her mouth is drawn into a line. “That… we can’t be doing any more of that.”

I hold my fingers up in the Boy Scout salute. “Last one, I promise.”

Nothing can stop me from texting her two minutes after she walks out that door, though.