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O liver and I are in the now-empty lobby of the resort, waiting for Nan and Imogen to arrive. Most of the time Oliver handles this stuff because he says I draw too much attention to Immy, but this resort is locked down tight for filming. Usually we’re constantly looking over our shoulders for paparazzi, but the production is so buttoned-down that half of the crew doesn’t even know why they’re here. And no one except those closest to us know that Micah and I are here. The freedom is pretty sweet.

I’m kind of hoping to run into that cute brunette we met earlier—Sunny? My eyes drift to the front desk every few minutes, just in case she makes an appearance. I wouldn’t hate seeing that sexy skirt of hers again. And her smile, of course. That was like pure sunshine. She has a pretty fitting name.

I’m sprawled out on one of the plush couches that line the spacious main entry of the resort, but Oliver is pacing in front of me. He’s calling Nan, who isn’t picking up. It’s late—well past dinner time—and they’re not here. They left our place in Brentwood after lunch, so they shouldn’t be this far behind us. Nan’s last text said they were stopping for chicken nuggets in Las Vegas because that’s all Imogen wants to eat these days. That was three hours ago, but I know how traffic gets in Vegas. I also know they have my private protection, James, with them so I’m not worried. The guy is well trained to handle paparazzi and overeager fans, not to mention the dude is jacked. He can take care of Immy and Nanny Nan. I roll my eyes at the ridiculous name.

The rest of the crew arrived, dumped their stuff in their rooms, and left for dinner a while ago. Oliver and I haven’t eaten and we’re both getting a tad edgy. He’s annoying the crap out of me, if I’m being honest. Oliver and I are friends, but we don’t do well in close quarters. Everything that makes him an excellent personal manager—perfectionism, attention to detail, organization—bugs the bejeezus out of me in large doses. Like right now, with the pacing.

“Ollie, calm down and have a seat. I’m sure they’re fine. Stop pacing.” He hates being called Ollie, and I’m trying to irritate him because he’s irritating me. Looks like it’s working.

“You like that your life runs like an atomic clock, right? Who do you think makes that happen?” He smashes his thumbs on the screen of his phone again. “Me, so I'll pace if I want to pace.”

In the corner of my eye I spot Sunny taking a seat behind the big front desk. Man, she’s pretty.

Look, don’t touch , I remind myself of the first words out of Oliver’s mouth when we left the front desk earlier. Of course he tracked my attraction to Sunny and immediately warned me off of her. I’m here to work, and he knows what happens—well, what used to happen—when I get distracted. At the time I appreciated the reminder, but now, with my empty stomach and her sunshine smile only twenty feet away, I think Oliver’s advice is kind of stupid.

But I’m looking, not touching, because deep down I know he’s right.

So, I look.

Sunny has her long, shiny brown hair pulled up into some kind of twisted thing on top of her head that wasn’t there earlier. There’s a pencil sticking out of it, which is… adorable. Strands of hair have es caped the pencil and are trailing down her delicate neck. She’s also wearing tortoise shell glasses that weren’t there this afternoon. And before this moment I didn’t know that the sexy librarian look is my thing. Tortoise shell glasses are the new string bikini. This is me keeping my hands to myself.

Her full lips purse to one side like she’s thinking. I zero in on those soft, pink lips for longer than I intend to. They probably taste like that red licorice I caught her eating earlier. Just an objective observation from a man who is looking and not touching.

I don't know what she’s doing, but she’s pretending to be busy. I know acting when I see it. She’s clicking on her computer and shuffling papers around, but it’s her drifting gaze that gives her away. Her smokey librarian eyes land on Oliver, and dart toward me periodically like she’s trying not to look. Her gaze catches on Oliver a little longer than I like and I scowl. Then her eyes land on me in surprise.

Did I just growl? No way did that sound just come out of my throat. I flick a wave at her and chuckle, like my laughter always starts with a growl. I’m just a normal, growl-chuckling guy hanging out in a lobby with his manager, wondering where his daughter and nanny are.

“Sup?” I lift my chin in the universal greeting of frat boys everywhere. That did not up my cool factor. Ugh. I better go over there before I shoot finger guns at her or something. I stand and saunter over to her desk.

“How can I help you, Mr. Beck?” she asks, before I have a chance to speak.

Her formality is jarring. After five minutes of spying on her, I had concocted an entire personality for Sunny that was warm, inviting, and well, sunny. Maybe she’s not a naughty librarian. Maybe she’s boring. Dang.

“You can call me Anders,” I smile .

She does a double take and her eyes go wide. The movement knocks another strand of hair out of her pencil bun.

“Long day, huh?”

“Yes.”

She’s giving me nothing to work with. “Do you like working here?” I prod.

She nods rigorously, and this time her hairdo unravels. The pencil clatters onto her desk and she swipes it up, twisting her hair back into a knot before I even get a chance to enjoy her messy hair. She blows the remaining strands up and out of her eyes with those distracting licorice lips. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

That question in her soft voice is begging for an innuendo-laden response. She’s killing me. I wish she wouldn’t tee it up like that when I’m working so hard to be a good guy. “Just getting to know you. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Out of nowhere, our blonde tour guide plops onto the spare chair next to Sunny. “Hey, Anders. Aren’t you supposed to be at some swanky dinner with the other VIPs?”

While Sunny elbows her I peek nonchalantly at her name tag. “Hi, Mercer. Yeah. My daughter and her nanny haven’t arrived yet. Just waiting on them.”

Just then, like my words summoned them, the front door bangs open and James walks in carrying a sleeping Imogen on his shoulder.

Oliver’s loud voice reaches them before I do. “Where have you been?”

James shoots a look at Oliver, then at Mercer and Sunny, making it clear that he doesn’t want to have this conversation with an audience.

“They’re good,” I say, knowing all about the huge pile of NDAs they’ve signed. I reach for Immy and she settles into the crook of my neck like she always does, with her crazy blonde frizz tickling my nose. “What happened?”

James’ only response is a sigh and, “I lost her in Vegas. ”

Oliver’s angry questions come out rapid-fire. “You lost Imogen? How could you do that? Is she okay?”

“Not Imogen. I lost Nan.” James’ voice is like an idling motorcycle that’s ready to gun it. “We stopped for dinner. Nan said she needed to use the bathroom and didn’t come back. She took off. She didn’t answer her phone. It took us a while to track her down.”

“And by ‘us’ you mean you and a five-year-old child were walking the streets of Las Vegas trying to track down Nanny Nan?” Oliver has a way of phrasing things that can blanket an entire room in shame. And he just can’t stop with the Nanny Nan thing. “Where is she now?”

“Sleeping in the car. She wouldn’t wake up.”

Speak of the devil. The woman herself appears, mincing toward us in a pair of high heels and skin-tight pink dress that are both decidedly un-nanny-like. She paws at James’ shoulder with a manicured hand. "You could've left her in the car with me, Sugar.”

I feel some petty satisfaction when he shrugs her hand away. “Imogen shouldn’t be left unsupervised in public, even if she’s asleep. It’s not safe.” His rumbling motorcycle voice revs. He’s right, and I’m glad he’s saying it so I don’t have to. I’m angry enough that I’d lose it.

But apparently, Nan doesn’t know when to stop. She spins on her heel and drapes a hand on my shoulder, droning on in her southern drawl which lands halfway between sexy and grating. “It wasn’t that big a deal, Andy.” Gross. Not loving that nickname. “She woulda kept sleeping.”

Oliver corrects her. “James parked, unloaded her from the car, and walked into the building before you realized she was gone—”

“Get her, Vader!” a female voice whisper-shouts behind us.

Oliver’s head swings toward the voice, wearing a very Darth Vader-esque death glare. It's the perfect nickname. I’ll be borrowing that one .

Mercer dodges Sunny’s swinging elbow and hisses, “What? Geez, quit with the elbow!”

Alabama Fran Drescher scowls at Mercer. “Shouldn’t you be getting our bags?”

Sunny arches one perfect eyebrow at Nan and quietly asks Mercer to take care of the bags.

“Y’all are both going to need to get out there. There’s a lot. Get along, now.” Her twang is syrupy, but it’s false sweetness that has me holding back a gag.

The pair of women stand like they’re really going to fetch Nan’s luggage. I can’t let that happen after the way she just spoke to them.

“I’ve got it. Where’re the carts?” I offer, looking for a place to lay Imogen. I mean, of course I’m hoping they have some secret hired muscle to do this job because I’ve seen how Nan packs, but better me than them. And Nanny Nan certainly isn’t jumping in to help.

“Not a chance, big guy. You’re not leaving us with her. You handle that” — Mercer motions to Nan — “and we’ll get the bags.”

When I turn my attention back to my group Oliver is finishing a lecture. “Bottom line, when we have an issue with the care you give Imogen, we need compliance instead of argument and complaints. You work for us.”

“Okay. I promise I won’t leave her alone, even if she’s asleep. Happy?” She holds her clawed hands out, like I’m supposed to hand Immy over.

“No.” Oliver’s answer is like the bang of a gavel. “What’s this about you disappearing in Vegas?”

Nan turns on James, “You told them?” she whines. Poor, put upon Nanny Nan. “I was just playing a few hands while Imogen ate her nuggies. She was with James. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“You were gambling?” I’m going to let Oliver handle this mess, but I can’t stop the question. I’m an easy going guy. I let a lot of stuff slide, because people usually have to be pretty patient with me. Plus, sometimes it’s better to let someone else be the go-between in these interactions. But Nan left Immy with James so she could gamble? Nope. I am way too grumpy for this bull crap.

“It was fine. I told you, James had her—”

Then Immy whines, “Hairy!” half asleep, reaching around me like her dog is going to bound around the corner and into her arms. Immy loves that dopey dog and it’s always a nightmare when they’re separated. Unfortunately, she’s staying at a kennel for the next two months because traveling with a 120-pound Great Dane labrador mix mutt is a major pain in the behind.

“Hairy is at home, Immy,” I smooth her wild curls and rest a hand on her head, holding her against my shoulder. “We’ll see her when we get home.” Please don’t ask when we’re going home. “I want to go home!” is Immy’s favorite thing to say exactly when we can’t go home.

She arches her back, doing a perfect impersonation of a flopping fish to escape my arms. “I want Hairy!” her tiny holler echoes through the corridor.

And suddenly, something big knocks into the back of my knees and they buckle. I land hard on my butt and my body breaks Imogen’s fall. And there’s Hairy, right in my face—snout to human nose—her warm dog breath puffing directly into my gaping mouth. Her big, brown eyes are guilt tripping me for even suggesting we would leave her in a kennel for two months. The tennis ball that is a permanent fixture in her slobbery mouth drops in my lap and she pants, waiting for me to throw it.

“I’m so sorry!” Sunny bursts in behind Hairy, gasping and out of breath. “He was running around the parking lot and came through the door before I could stop him! I’ll get him out” — she drags in a lungful of air — “and call animal control.”

“Hairy is a girl,” Imogen tells Sunny, in that tiny, solemn voice of hers. “See her pink collar? She’s my dog. I named her Hairy Styles because she’s my best friend and I love her.” She flings her twiggy arms around her dog’s furry, gray neck and I swear I see Hairy roll her eyes because none of this makes sense. How did she end up in this situation, and with such a name? Hairy is a good, long-suffering girl.

While Sunny catches her breath, Oliver lays into Nan. “The dog? You brought the dog. I left simple instructions to leave the dog at the kennel on Westwood Ave. Why is she here? More importantly, why was she running loose around the parking lot?” Ever since the day we brought her home from the shelter, Oliver has refused to use the name Immy chose. I don’t think a female dog named Hairy Styles computes in his cyborg brain.

Nan is whining worse than Immy now. “Imogen wouldn’t let me! She wouldn’t stop crying.” She pleads to me, “Y’all don’t understand how dependent she is on that dumb mutt.”

I swear Hairy’s whiskery eyebrows raise at the insult. She can't be too dumb; she’s disliked Nan from day one—which was exactly eight days ago. Finding a trustworthy nanny is no easy task when you’re Anders Beck.

I grab her slobbery tennis ball and launch it down the hall. Hairy bounds after it, with Immy giggling at her heels. With my daughter distracted I can say what needs to be said.

“You’re fired,” I tell Nan, too hungry and tired to elaborate. This shouldn’t require an explanation. When she protests, I cut her off, “That’s enough. You’re done. James will get you home safely.” He’s going to hate that.

But Oliver tries to stop me. “Think this through. We have a full day tomorrow. I won’t be able to replace Nanny Nan like that” — he snaps his fingers — “or I would have already.”

He’s not wrong. This is going to be a major pain in my a—

“Y’all can’t fire me! I just started. You’ve barely given me a fair chance,” Nan’s grating voice cuts into my thoughts. She stabs her pointed nail into my chest, “On second thought, you know what? I quit. Good luck to you. Good luck figuring out how to take care of that little brat by yourself. You have no idea what that girl needs, and you have no idea how to be a father.”

She spins on her bedazzled heel and leaves.

Her words might have hit differently if she hadn’t spent the afternoon blowing off her one job. She isn’t exactly a credible source. I’m an okay dad. I think.

Oliver runs a hand down his face, releasing a long breath. He curses. Immy and Hairy are back at my side, playing a combination of fetch and keep away with the nasty tennis ball. Hairy runs away with the ball and Immy follows her.

“We’ll figure this out,” I assure Oliver. “It’ll be fine.”

“It’ll be fine for you. I’m the one who has to find a replacement nanny in the twelve hours before you start filming a new project.” His thumbs are already burning a trail on his phone screen.

“Let me find someone. I can find someone.” I don’t know why Oliver doesn’t think I can do this stuff. Just because he usually does it doesn’t mean I can’t. Everything always works out.

“Okay, Hot Shot. We’re hours from civilization, at an empty resort in Utah. Where are you going to look?” How does the man glare straight into my eyes and yell at me while he types on his phone? See? Cyborg.

I look around the lobby like a nanny vending machine is going to appear. Worth a shot. Then I spot Immy at the end of the hall. She’s curled up on a couch next to Sunny. Hairy is on her other side, sitting back against the couch cushions like she’s one of the girls. Sunny runs her fingers through Immy’s curly hair, twisting it into one of her pencil bun things. Hairy lolls her head to the side, leaning her full weight onto Immy, who tips into Sunny. The domino effect makes the three girls laugh. I think Hairy is laughing, anyway. She started it. Something about the sight pinches inside my chest. Now I want to look at her and touch her, but for entirely wholesome reasons. Sunny is different .

Immy spots me watching her. “Daddy, look how my hair is! It’s got a pencil just like her!” she announces with a giggle, wriggling out from under Hairy. The pencil falls out of her hair with the movement and she whines, “Hairy! You knocked out my pencil!”

Sunny shushes her and whispers, “I’ll fix it.” She drags her fingers through the curls again, twisting them into the pencil on top of Immy’s head. My daughter’s eyes are glazed—she loves having her hair played with. And I don't blame her. I think I'd enjoy having Sunny's fingers in my hair, too. In no time, Immy’s hair is up in the pencil and all is right with the world.

I raise an eyebrow at Oliver.

Oliver raises an eyebrow at me.

Sometimes it’s convenient having my best friend as a manager, because we can communicate telepathically. I want to hire Sunny to be Immy's nanny. Oliver doesn’t think it’s a great idea, but we don’t have a lot of options.

He shrugs.

I nod at him. He needs to be the one to hire her. I can’t do it—It'll come out sounding like a proposition. Want to hang out in our suite and play house with me for pay?

He nods emphatically back at me.

I nod his way, lobbing the task back at him. This is what I pay you for, man.

He shakes his head at me, and nods rigorously in the direction of the girls.

I turn to face them and Sunny is watching us.

“What?” she asks.