Page 19

T his isn’t happening. I have to wake up from this nightmare. But I’m starting to think I’m awake and this is really happening. I am having my first real in-person interaction with Micah Watson and my hair is dripping down my back. I also likely have mascara under my eyes, and I’m wearing a soggy, somewhat saggy swimsuit left over from last summer. My only hope is to blend into the background like a sagebrush.

I lead Immy to a low rock wall to sit, as still as shrubbery, far away from Christopher Marchant, who is glaring at me, and Micah Watson, whose gaze hasn’t left his phone since we got here. Some guy shoves a tablet in my face and has me sign away half of my First Amendment rights under threat of execution if I reveal any footage or even descriptions of what I witness on set. Or something like that. I read no part of the legal document—I am too busy wondering if Micah sees me, while also not caring if he does, while also observing how scrumptious Anders looks in his costume. Those costume designers know exactly what they’re doing with that slightly torn, fitted t-shirt.

The set has a lot more going on than I imagined. There’s just a lot of stuff —contraptions I can’t name, lights, cameras, and some small tracks on the ground for moving the cameras. And there are so many people standing around. There are costumers, make-up artists, people with walkie-talkies, some moving the unnamed apparatuses around, some standing at a table covered with food.

A guy touches up Anders’ make-up. The men take their places. The director says, “Go.” And Micah and Anders start going at it. An asteroid could rip through the sky and land in my lap, and it wouldn’t pull my attention away from this scene. On screen, these men capture attention. In person, they are riveting.

They spar for a few minutes before a voice interrupts them. “Cut.” The director’s voice is firm, and I don’t know the guy, but he sounds kind of peeved.

They reset, return to their marks, and start again. I wish I had some popcorn and a Coke Icee. I could watch this for hours. They’re a few lines of dialog past the first take when Christopher barks, “Cut!” He waves Micah and Anders over and they exchange words. The expression on Micah’s face is… haughty. It’s not a look I’ve seen on him before. It’s not an attractive look, which I didn’t think was possible. He has plenty of angry words for Anders. I can’t hear much from here, but as the conversation gets more heated, I hear Micah snark, “... that girl needs to go.”

Is Micah talking about me? Or Imogen?

One thing I am certain of—no matter who he’s talking about—is I don’t like the way he’s talking to anyone. It’s like he’s the sun at the center of this movie set and everyone else is orbiting him. His needs trump everyone else’s. Between takes, Frankie holds a small fan up to his face and he rolls his eyes, batting it away.

Ick.

Then, he snarls something about getting rid of the distractions on set so he can work.

I want to get out of here, but I don’t want to draw even more attention. I wish I could blend into the background like a chameleon and crawl away. From where I’m sitting, the scene was going well. Or so I thought. I didn’t think Immy and I could have possibly been distracting. But then the three of the men swing around and look me right in the water-logged, mascara-dripping face. I hold my breath.

Anders says something low and sharp to Micah. Micah says something to the director, who nods. Anders looks like he’s ready to flip a table when he marches toward us. Uh-oh.

“You’re doing really good, Dad!” Immy cheers him on, oblivious.

“Thanks, kiddo.” His fire-and-ice eyes find mine. “This is uncomfortable…” he trails off.

“You need us to leave?” It’s a guess, but I hope I’m wrong.

Relief washes over his face when he nods. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s—”

“No, it’s totally fine. I’m sorry we messed things up again. I need to get dinner for Immy, anyway. Plus, I need to shower. We don’t want to be in the way. Let’s go, Im. How about some nuggets for dinner? Get your stuff.” She doesn’t have any stuff. I silence my motormouth with a breathy laugh that only amplifies the awkwardness of the moment.

“For the record, I like having you here.” He squeezes Immy’s shoulder and adds, “Both of you.”

“I wish we could stay and watch,” Immy pouts, whinier than usual.

I crouch down to talk her through it. “I know. I’m sad about it, too. But we need to let Hairy out, then I think we should drown our sadness in the biggest order of nuggets Goldie can make. Sound good?”

“No!” she shouts. “I want to watch my dad!” She screeches in a way that is so outside of normal for her that I just stare at her, dumbfounded. In a swift motion, Anders scoops her up, takes my place on the rock wall, and whispers in her ear.

It finally occurs to me—just at this moment—that not only are we past due for dinner, but it’s almost time for bed, and her ibuprofen has probably worn off. We played hard in the pool, and it’s taking a toll on her little five-year-old body. How did I not think of this? I have to be the most careless nanny of all time.

You’re not meant to be taking care of children , a desperate voice whispers in the back of my mind. The thought feels like an ocean of salt being rubbed in a wound that never seems to heal.

That’s when it registers that the entire production crew is fixated on this scene, waiting for Anders to scoot us away so they can finish their jobs and go home. Everyone—Micah Watson, Christopher Marchant, Darth Oliver—saw Imogen scream at me, and how I froze like a deer waiting to get run over by a truck. And now they’re all watching, their faces a mixture of annoyance and anger. I wonder how hard it is to get into the Witness Protection Program?

I need to get out of here. My gaze swings through the smorgasbord of people judging me, to Imogen. Anders is still whispering in her ear, but now she’s smiling and whispering back, even with remnants of tears clinging to her long eyelashes. She grins at me and I know right away that something is up.

“What?” I check my clothing for anything unfastened, unzipped, or dangling.

“Nothing,” she chirps, hopping down from Anders’ knee. “Ready to go?” She grabs my hand.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the rollercoaster of Imogen’s emotions, but I squeeze her tiny fingers and smile at her. “Sure.” I turn to her handsome dad. “See you in a few?”

“Can’t wait.” Then he slides his big hand behind my neck, ducks down, and presses a soft, leisurely kiss to my lips. His thumb drags down my cheek and he smirks as he pulls away.

“What are you doing?” I hiss. My eyes dart to Imogen, who is in no way mentally prepared for this development, then to the film crew. Micah’s face is dark red. Christopher is having words with Oliver. “You’re going to get us in trouble!”

Imogen’s giggle bounces off the buildings around us. “I told him to do that!” She is proud of herself, but she has no idea the ripple- effect of problems she just started. I’m already dreading the dressing down I’m surely going to get from Oliver.

“A five-year-old put you up to that and you listened?” I quirk an eyebrow at him.

“Not that exactly, but… yeah.” He drops a whisper of a kiss to my cheek, chaste enough for church. Then he plants a loud, smacking kiss on his daughter’s cheek. “See you ladies in a little bit.”

“Ugh.” I faceplant on the couch in my condo, dangling my feet off the edge of the cushion. What a day. I passed the childcare baton to Anders the second he came in the door tonight, eager for rest and a minute away from him. I’m in desperate need of perspective.

Oliver didn’t contact me (read: rip me a new one) the way I expected him to after Imogen and I left the set. That ax has been dangling over my head all evening and it's taking a toll. I don't know what Anders was thinking with that very public kiss. Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly appreciated it. I can still feel it on my lips and I swear I can smell him on my clothes. But why did he choose that moment to hurdle over every rule we've made—in front of every person who has an interest in our relationship remaining professional? His director, Oliver, Micah, Imogen…

“Ugh!” I groan into the velvety couch again, pounding it with my fist.

“You’re home early.”

I startle and lift my face off the cushion. Mercer is lying sideways on our loveseat with her legs draped over the arm. Her blonde hair is in its standard sloppy ponytail, and her tall athletic socks are sagging off of her toes.

“I didn't see you there.” I re-bury my face in the couch. Why couldn't I have been born an ostrich?

“Rough day? ”

“Anders kissed me again. On set this time, in front of Immy and everyone. Everyone.”

I sense Mercer sitting up. “No way.”

I blink one eye open to gauge her reaction. “I assure you, he did. I would know. The man can kiss.”

“So… what’s the big deal? He’s a fox. I say go for it.”

My voice is muffled by the couch when I tell her, “First of all, Oliver threatened me with financial ruin if I mess with Anders. My job, your job, Anders’ job, everyone’s job is on the line here.” He’s like the Anti-Oprah, handing out threats. There’s one for everyone. I can’t imagine the end of Nizhóní, our family legacy and the last thing left of my father, all boiling down to the fact that I can’t get my crap together around a handsome man.

“Pfft. Oliver talks a big game, but what can he really do?”

I sit up and kick my feet onto our coffee table. “According to the documents I signed, a lot. Besides, I really don’t want to mess with Anders’ career. This role is a big deal for him, and I’m a distraction. They’ll finish shooting, he’ll go on to his next thing, and I’ll be left here feeling like one of your dirty socks.” Used, discarded, forgotten under the coffee table. Womp womp.

“No,” Mercer snaps. “My strong, kind, gorgeous friend is not a dirty sock and never will be. Stop that talk right now. Anders doesn’t even deserve you.”

That comment gives me pause. I think about the guy I’ve been spending my nights and trading texts with. I see a dad who doesn’t know how to enforce a bedtime, and a man who likes to goof around and bend rules. If he’s a womanizer, that means I’m the one being womanized. Does it feel like he’s doing that? I’ll have to think about this. Kissing me like that in front of Immy before we even know what we are is incriminating evidence.

But I also see a guy who is so thoughtful, he paid someone to drive his Jeep hundreds of miles just so I could have fun. And speaking of fun, he makes me laugh. I’ve never laughed so hard and so often. Throw in the fact that he’s ridiculously handsome and talented, and I don’t know how I’m going to survive a weekend away with him. At least we’ll be staying in separate locations.

“Geez, you are so far gone.” Mercer taunts, breaking my runaway train of thought.

“I’m just thinking about the trip. How am I supposed to keep it together when we are in such close proximity? And on a plane—I can’t handle this. This isn’t me. I just want to get some cats from the animal shelter, watch some knitting tutorials on YouTube, and retire.”

Mercer groans. “Do you hear yourself? You’re not ninety years old. You’re young. Give yourself the chance to live. Make mistakes. Do something crazy.”

“And ruin my life, Imogen’s life, and Anders’ career in the process? No thanks.”

“Taking a trip with a hot guy isn’t going to ruin anything. You’re not doing anything wrong, and you won’t. You’re too smart for that.”

I’m not sure about that. My face goes warm, thinking about the few illegal kisses I’ve shared with Anders, plus all of the boneheaded things I’ve done since I met the man. The combination of his lethal charm, his single dimple, and his quick wit make all logical thoughts leave my brain.

“You think I’m wrong,” Mercer says with a sideways grin.

“I don’t know what to think. Anders is… He’s not what I expected.” I remember his habit of dumping his dirty meal containers on the counter, and how the first thing he does when he gets home is find Immy and hoist her up for a hug. “He’s a real guy. Normal. Not perfect, but good.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “It doesn’t matter whether he deserves me or not, or whether I deserve to have some fun. It can’t happen.”

“There’s a song about this.” Mercer nods sagely, like she’s about to impart some hard-earned relationship wisdom. Then she belts out, “Every party has a pooper, that’s why we invited you— ”

“Oh, shut up.” I laugh, despite myself. I refuse to tell her she makes even that song sound good. Mercer can sing, but if you point it out, she basically curls into a ball like a pill bug and rolls away.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket while Mercer goes on singing her party pooper song, only now her voice has morphed into a French accent. I pull out my phone to find that I’ve missed multiple texts, and now I have a call coming in from the man himself. My heart thumps against my ribcage, but I need my brain to be in charge for a minute. Cool your jets, Heart. It’s just Anders.

It’s just Anders. The thought does nothing to calm my eager heart.

I swipe to answer the call, and stand to sneak away to my bedroom.

“Hello?” I keep my voice low, using my hand to muffle my friend’s singing, which is an insult to French people everywhere.

“Everay partay has a poopah!” Mercer only gets louder as I move further away.

“Sunny?” his deep voice hums in my ear. “Everything okay over there?

I close my bedroom door behind me. “Yeah. Mercer is just being… Mercer. What’s going on?”

There’s shuffling on his end. “You ran off tonight.”

“I know.” I sigh and slump against the bars of my wrought-iron headboard. “Why did you do that, Anders?”

“Do what?” The smile in his voice makes me want to push him into a lake—or drive over there and kiss him. One of those things.

“You kissed me in front of Immy, and everyone. What were you thinking?” My cheeks warm at the memory of the way he felt, and all of the eyes on us.

“Immy gave me permission.”

“Great, so you only kissed me because a kid said you could.” I grab a pillow and wedge it behind my back. I need to invest in a comfy headboard. “I can’t believe she told you to kiss me. What a little meddler.”

“She didn’t tell me to kiss you, exactly. Just” — he clears his throat — “When that kid gets an idea in her head, there’s no talking her out of it. And my kid has ideas about you.”

My heart is really thumping now, whether out of excitement or a fight-or-flight response, it’s hard to tell. I am scared of how attached I am to Imogen. Pain is imminent. “What ideas, Anders?”

“Yesterday she told me… she wants you to be her permanent nanny.”

He’s lying. I don’t know how I know, I just know. His tone is different. Actor-y. Those were not Imogen’s words, I am sure of that. Strangely, a little cloud of sadness hovers over me at the thought. Those words spark unfair hope in my lonely, childless heart. “You’re lying.”

“That was the nuts and bolts of it, okay? She wants you around long term.”

I gasp. “So you decided to reinforce your impressionable child’s delusions?” I shout. What a disaster. At least he’s rich enough to afford a good therapist for her.

He chuckles, “Not at all. I just kissed you. I asked her what I could do to make her happy, and she gave me some ideas. I improvised. Are you saying you didn’t enjoy it?” He pretends to be hurt, but he’s full of it. He knows exactly how well he kisses and how I responded.

“Obviously not, but I’ve been waiting for a threatening call from Oliver all night. He and Christopher looked so… done.”

“I just got off a call with them, actually. I took care of it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Impossible. I let the line fall silent. There’s no way it was that simple. I feel like I got pushed into a lion’s den, but the lion yawned and fell asleep. At any moment the lion is going to wake up and sic his team of lawyers on me .

“You still there, beautiful?” The smile is back in his voice. He’s needling me with every little word he uses. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and it’s working. But I’m not about to let him know that.

“Yeah. I just can’t believe it was that easy.”

“I wouldn’t say it was easy. I just told them I’m off the project if they won’t let me have a personal life.” There’s more shuffling on his end of the line, almost like he’s smothering his phone with a pillow.

“And they just said ‘okay’ and backed off?” I don’t buy that.

“Sure.” More muffled sounds come through the receiver.

“What on earth are you doing over there? And I don’t believe that they just said ‘okay’. There’s no way.”

He’s quiet for way too long.

“Anders?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they say?”

His answering sigh is gusty. “Chris said they will replace me if they have to. They won’t, though. He’s just trying to get my head back in the game, but he doesn’t need to. I’ve got this. It’s fine.”

“Anders.” His name comes out softer than I intend.

“We’re good, Sunflower.” His voice caresses my name in a way that violates every rule we’ve made—as if his kiss hadn’t done that already. The man is a lost cause.

“Anders.” This time my tone is stern. “You need to take this seriously. This will end badly for both of us.”

“Who says it’s going to end?”

He can’t see my glare, but it’s there. “Come on. Be serious.”

“I am not known for that.”

I know. “ANDERS.” This time I use the voice I’ve been using to get Hairy down from the couch.

“I promise everything is going to be good. Trust me. Now, on to a fun topic.” There are more scuffing sounds on his end, then he says, “We have a trip this weekend. ”

I haven’t forgotten. We’re supposed to leave in just a couple of days. And because I’m Sunny Pratt I’ve already researched the weather, packed a bag and a backup bag in case the weather changes. I was supposed to invite a friend, but I haven’t. Maybe I chickened out. I don’t know. I do know that I’m relishing the idea of a few days alone in a quiet place where someone else makes my bed for me. The place where I’ll be staying is absurdly opulent. I have absolutely nothing to wear there, which means I’m doubling down on my plan to hole up in my room like a yeti, eating room service and reading. Dream vacation.

“Yep. I’m ready. And excited. Have I thanked you enough for this?”

“No thanks necessary” — he grunts — “from the woman taking care of my child.”

“Okay, I have to know what you’re doing over there. Moving furniture?”

He laughs through a grunt. “Working out in my living room. Tabata.” There’s another groan followed by a long exhale. “I took off my shirt. You’re missing a show.”

“You’ve been working out this whole time?” My laugh is incredulous, but a little too breathy. I can’t get the image of Anders doing whatever he’s doing, all shirtless and sweaty, out of my mind. I run my hand down my face. This has to stop. I try to joke to keep things light. “Celebrities. They are not just like us.”

His laugh is strained, probably from being mid-plank or something. “You think this body happened by accident?”

Absolutely not. “Okay, that’s my cue. Goodnight, Anders. Have fun working out while I get eight luxurious hours of sleep.”