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“O liver made the reservation. You know Ollie—there’s no way…” Anders shakes his head, pulling his phone from his back pocket. “Why don’t you go in there and try a chocolate ball while I sort this out? I’ll just be a minute.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and leaves through the front door.

I ponder our list of carefully selected rules for keeping professional boundaries in place. This man has blown through all of them. It’s a dream. And a nightmare. I can’t shake the nagging feeling that everything is going to fall to pieces because Anders and I galavanted to Minnesota like a couple of teenagers.

I wander into the kitchen, nervous without a plan for the night. It’s getting late, and I don’t have a hotel reservation. Are Anders’ parents early-to-bed kind of people and I’m wearing out my welcome? Maybe I can call a rideshare and find a hotel nearby. These thoughts are spinning in my mind when I find a chocolate-coated Immy sitting at the counter with her grandpa. I squeeze her in a side hug.

“Mind if I join you?” I perch on a barstool. “Anders is making a phone call. ”

Johan slides a little container of chocolate balls toward me. “You should have some before we eat them all.”

“Dad had some, too, Morfie,” Immy defends herself, her mouth full of slobbery chocolate.

I gingerly pick up one of the treats with a whisper to Imogen, “Don’t talk with your mouth full of food, kiddo.” I take a delicate bite of the chocolate ball. “Thith ith good,” I pop the rest of the mind-blowing dessert into my mouth with a dramatic eye roll. “Oh man, that’th delithious,” I moan.

Imogen giggles. “You said not to talk with food in my mouth!”

“I know.” I wink at her. Anders’ dorkiness is rubbing off on me. “Your Mormie’s treats are too good, I guess.”

Johan observes me quietly. His pleased smile is weathered and one-dimpled—the aged version of his son’s grin. I bet poor, young Tillie didn’t stand a chance. “They’re Anders and Immy’s favorite,” he says in his faint Swedish accent. “Have another.”

I nod, happily snatching just one more. “Thanks.”

The three of us work our way through a few more chocolate balls—I couldn’t stop at one more—in companionable silence.

Immy swallows her chocolate and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand with a long, satisfied sigh. “Do you really hafta go to a hotel?”

“Well, that’s what your dad is working on.” I peek over Immy’s head to Johan. “The hotel couldn’t find the reservation Oliver booked. Anders is figuring it out.”

Johan’s wrinkled forehead gathers into a frown. “Uh-oh.”

I’m learning that Anders gets his chattiness from his mother. The sound of the clock ticking makes me wonder if Tillie will reappear because even Immy is uncharacteristically quiet this evening.

“Hi, hi!” Tillie flutters into the room like I summoned her, wearing a floral mumu over a thick pair of sweatpants. It also looks like she’s doing heatless curls tonight. There’s a long, foam rod woven into her gray-blonde locks. “Oh, I’m glad you’re still here, Sunny! I was worried I’d miss you!”

“Woman, what are you wearing?” Johan mutters.

“Pajamas.” She nibbles on a chocolate ball. When her husband shakes his head she adds, “It’s supposed to get down into the teens again tonight. Where is my boy?”

“He’s outside making a call. They lost my reservation, I guess,” I say with a cringe.

“Oh no! Well, you can just stay with us. We have plenty of room. Here, I’ll show you where you can put your things.”

“Sleepover!” Immy cheers.

The two co-conspirators start toward the hallway before I can stop them, only pausing when Anders walks in. He’s looking red-faced, either from anger or the cold. It’s hard to tell.

“Ollie never made the reservation. I’ve tried a few places, and there’s nothing comparable open for tonight. I called everywhere.” He runs a hand down his face, scratching his scruffy jaw. “I’m sorry, Sunny. I can’t believe—”

“We worked it all out,” Tillie cuts in. “She’s staying here.”

Anders eyebrows raise and he looks at me with a question in his eyes. We’ve crossed a few lines in the last few weeks, but spending the weekend with his family would be a monumental one. Is he uncomfortable with this?

I shrug at him. It’s your call , I try to communicate telepathically. I don’t have much of a choice. It’s either this or the nearest Motel 6.

His blue eyes search mine. I’m down if you are , he seems to say.

I nod. “Only if you’re all okay with it. I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Impossible. We have more than enough room. Anders’ brothers won’t be here until tomorrow.”

Anders coughs to hide a curse. “Josh and Liam are coming?”

“Language!” Tillie swats the back of his head. “Of course they're coming. I told them you were finally coming home and we planned it. I texted you about it. I’m sure I did.” She fiddles with the foam rod in her hair. I just met her, and I know this story is fishy. She loops her soft arm through mine. “Here, I’ll show you to Anders’ room—”

“No!” Anders' startled voice stops her. “We can’t put her in there, Mom.”

“Oh, no no no. I couldn’t. Where will he sleep?” I agree, though Tillie ignores both of us. We’re already halfway up the creaky wood staircase, with Anders and Immy following closely behind. “I can sleep on the couch. Really.”

Tillie ignores me and her son's many protests, swinging open the door to his room ceremoniously. If I had pictured the childhood bedroom of Anders Beck—and I haven’t—this would not be it. I fight unsuccessfully to stifle my laughter as I take in my surroundings.

A bunk bed lines one wall, and covering every square inch of wall space there are dozens and dozens of posters.

Of Mariah Carey.

It’s not a single poster, tastefully hidden in the back of his closet behind his clothing like a sane person. No. There are many, many posters, from every Mariah era. It’s so many posters that it detracts from the fact that there is an actual twin bunk bed in this grown man’s bedroom. Maybe I’ve been listening to too much true crime, but it reminds me of one of those stories where they find a serial killer’s lair covered in photos of the victims. I would be nervous except it’s so freaking hilarious.

Obviously, I know what I have to do.

I take a quick selfie, making sure to include as many posters as possible. I type a text Mercer right away with the caption: “Well well well...”

“Gimme that.” He grabs my phone before I can push send, holding it just out of my reach. “Let me remind you that you have a poster— ”

“No! Anders!” He wouldn’t bring that up in front of his mom. I just met her. I need her to like me. He knows that. I jump for my phone, like that will stop him.

“...of Micah Watson hidden in your closet!” he exclaims with triumph.

“ No .” Tillie gasps and her hand covers her mouth. Her smile tells me she’s hamming up her response for her son’s benefit.

Anders' grin is devious. “Yes.”

“It isn’t what it sounds like!” I defend myself, even though I know the truth: There is no defense. “Besides, you have to admit this is next-level crazy.” I gesture to the walls. He even has a Mariah Carey Merry Christmas poster. “What in the Ted Bundy is happening here?”

Tillie laughs, even though I’m only half joking. “Will you be able to sleep in the presence of all this?”

“I can’t take Anders’ room. Let me take the couch.”

She shakes her head. “Not a chance, honey.” She fluffs the pillow and turns down the blanket.

It’s settled, then. I’m learning that there’s no point in arguing with any member of this family when they want something.

A few hours later, the house is quiet and I’m staring at the underside of the top bunk, completely wired. How on earth did I end up here—in Anders Beck’s family home, sleeping in his bed, staring into the many faces of Mariah Carey?

This family is not at all what I pictured. I like Anders’ parents. They talk, love, tease, and bicker like a normal, healthy family. I curl my toes in the cold sheets, finding strange pleasure in the fact that they are slightly pilled, kind of scratchy, and smell like Tide. There is no pretense here, despite their son’s megastar status .

Now I’m thinking about Anders and Imogen, sharing the bunk bed in the room next door. I wonder if he took the top or the bottom, and smile at the mental image of either option. Imogen had begged to take the top bunk with me, but I was relieved when Anders told her he wanted to have a sleepover with her. My efforts at remaining detached from either of them have been obliterated by both parties. They’ve stormed through my weak defenses and I’ve barely put up a fight. They’re just too hard to say no to.

For example: I rode in a tin can airplane across the country to a destination I didn’t plan. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring because I have no schedule. This weekend is not what I had envisioned and I am loving everything about that. Is this what adventure feels like? Because I need more of whatever this is.

“Goodnight, Mariah,” I whisper through a contented sigh as I force my eyes closed.

Of course, my phone immediately buzzes on the carpet where it’s plugged in next to the bed. I’d ignore it, but what if Nizhóní is on fire? I swat around, find the charger cord, and reel in my phone like a trout.

ANDERS

Comfy?

SUNNY

Yep

ANDERS

Because I can come in there and tuck you in

ANDERS

I know all the tricks to that bed

SUNNY

Anders Beck Abrahamson. What would your mother say?

ANDERS

It was her idea

That makes me laugh out loud before I can stop myself. I slap my hand over my mouth.

ANDERS

I heard that. Coming over

“Stay where you are!” I whisper-shout through the wall, praying it’s not loud enough for Tillie or Johan to hear. I hope they're heavy sleepers.

ANDERS

Nope. On my way. Get decent

ANDERS

Or not

There’s a soft knock at the door before the knob turns.

I pull the covers up to my chin out of instinct. Anders doesn’t need to know that I’m sleeping in his sweatshirt—the same one I didn’t really need earlier this evening when he offered it to me. I packed layers. I’m no dummy. But did I accept the ruggedly handsome man’s sweatshirt even though I had one in my bag? Yes. Again: I am no dummy. Say au revoir to your sweatshirt, buddy.

“Are you seriously knocking right now?” I tighten the blanket around me, just in case.

Instead of answering, he drops onto the bed beside me, lying back and crossing his ankles like he hasn’t just crossed a major boundary.

“Um, hello.” I laugh, scooting over to make room on the narrow mattress. “Welcome to your bed.”

“Hi.” He fluffs his side of the pillow under his head. “This thing is terrible.”

“I don’t care. I’m just happy I’m not at Super 8 tonight.” I whisper, hoping he’ll follow my lead. I don’t want to get caught like this .

“Me too.” His voice is low, thank goodness. He pulls my hand away from the vice grip I have on the blanket under my chin and kisses my palm. He tries to keep my hand in his, but I slip it away.

“Anders, you can’t be like this with me.”

“Why not?”

I groan. “You know what? I understand Oliver more and more the longer I know you.”

He pretends to shudder. “Don’t say that, Sunflower.”

“You know why we can’t do this. You’re making it so hard for me to keep it together.”

“So let things fall apart,” he says through a yawn. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I hold up my fingers, ticking items off by the dim glow of the plug-in nightlight across the room. “One, we ruin the shoot. Two, you ruin your career. Three, Christopher’s lawyers destroy my family’s resort. Generations of hard work, gone. Poof. Four, we are all destitute. I wind up selling pictures of my feet on the internet to survive. You get by charging middle-aged women for photos at conventions.”

“I could make a decent living doing that.”

“ANDERS.”

He sighs. “I know.”

I can hear a clock ticking in the silence that follows. I peek at him when I feel his eyes on me. His hair is messy and his scruff is longer than I’ve ever seen on him. He really is ridiculously handsome. And good. I’m feeling a little like Elizabeth when she visits Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice . If I wasn’t half gone over Anders before we left Utah, I am now after seeing his childhood home and watching him interact with his parents. I can’t believe I ever bought into the trash that gets printed about him online.

“You’re not what I thought.” The words are out before I can stop them.

“How so? ”

“Well, there’s the Mariah thing.” I tease to deflect from the truth, because he can’t know what I’m really thinking. He’s already impossible to hold off. “The amount of grief you gave me for one, single Micah Watson poster—”

“One atrocious poster.”

“Um, have you seen these walls?”

“Yep. But that’s not what you meant. I’m not what you thought because?”

He lets the quiet fall around us. I squirm under his plaid comforter.

“I don’t know, I just thought you were like the stuff that goes around online. Different girl every week. Ostentatious. Mega bachelor yacht parties. Dragging Imogen around the world like a toy.”

“Hmm.”

I realize far too late how that sounded. “I mean, I know stuff online is only half true. But…”

He doesn’t respond. In the heavy silence that follows, it occurs to me that I am the Mr. Darcy of this situation. I’m the one who thought he was beneath me. I have made judgment after judgment about this man based on what? I don’t know him. I didn’t know him, anyway. But I think I know him now.

“The thing is—” he starts to say.

“I’m sorry,” I say at the same time.

“Go ahead,” I murmur.

He pulls in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “That was me. I can’t deny it. But it’s not me now.” He takes my hand, squeezing like he’s reassuring both of us. “Imogen’s mom…” he scratches his jaw.

He doesn’t want to talk about this, I can tell. I run my thumb across the back of his hand to encourage him.

“When Cassidy left us, Imogen was a wreck. We’ve both healed a lot, but you’ve probably noticed some of it still. She’s clingy. Worries too much. She tries to fill in like a mom would… ”

I don’t know how I haven’t connected the dots before now, but he’s exactly right. My heart breaks for the little girl who doesn’t understand why her mom is gone and the anxiety and fear that go along with that.

“Cassidy just… left us. Left her—her own daughter. Yeah, I partied and I wasn’t the greatest guy. But seeing how much Cassidy hurt Imogen? That’s all it took. I realized I don’t want to be that person.” His voice rumbles like thunder and the tension in the air has gathered around us like static electricity. Lightning is going to strike soon. “I’m not that person anymore.” He recites the words like a mantra.

“You’re not. I can see that.” My voice is soft.

He’s gone quiet, and I can’t make out his face in the darkness. I need him to know that I see the real him, but he interrupts my thoughts, repeating my words under his breath like he’s inspecting them for truth. “I drag my daughter around the world like a toy.” Next it sounds like a question—an angry, lashing question. “I drag her around like a toy?”

“Anders, that’s not…”

“Hmm.” He kicks his feet over the side of the bed.

“Anders. I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I just need to think. It’s fine.” He squeezes my knee through the thick blankets, but his voice is robotic. “Just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable in here.”

He’s across the room before I can think of anything that will make this right. He twists the knob and without turning around, whispers, “G’night, Sunny,” into the dark.