Page 22

“D ad.”

I groan into my wafer-like pillow. “Five more minutes, Ollie…” My mind goes black.

“Ugh! Dad! You gotta get up.” Imogen’s mouth is close to my ear now, tickling me into consciousness. “I made a surprise breakfast in bed for you and Sunny.”

I run my hands down my face, trying to wake up. It’s still dark. Why can’t I get this kid on a normal, human schedule? The frustrating thought takes me back to last night, and the talk I had with Sunny. Her words drag through my mind, barbed and scratching at my perception of my parenting.

Because I know she’s right.

It doesn’t feel great to recognize that I’ve done so many things wrong at the cost of my daughter’s wellbeing. But this is my career and my life, and she’s my daughter. I’m not about to leave her on other continents or across the country while I do my job like Cassidy did. I don't know where to start to fix this. It’s a problem with no easy solution, but I’m determined to make it right.

I can’t worry about this right now. I already spent half the night tossing around and thinking about it, which is why I feel like —

“Ugh! Dad!”

“Okay.” That came out sharper than I intended, and I instantly wish I could suck the word back into my mouth. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t sleep very well.”

“It’s okay.” She pats my shoulder. “Come on. Your breakfast is gonna be cold.” She wraps her hands around my arm that is dangling over the side of the bed, pulling with all of her bird-like strength.

“Hey, isn’t breakfast in bed supposed to be in bed?”

“Ugh!” She tugs harder. “I can’t carry it. It’s too big. You have to help me.”

Eventually all of Immy’s tugging leads me to a breakfast tray for two on my parents’ kitchen island. There are two plates of her egg toast, two bananas freckled with brown spots, and two glasses of chocolate milk that slopped a little over the sides. I grab Immy under the arms and pull her up in a hug.

“Did you know that you’re the best girl in the whole world?” I peck a kiss on her cheek. “The very best.”

“Dad!” She giggles. “It’s going to get cold before Sunny can have it!”

“Okay, okay.” I take the tray and let Imogen lead me up the stairs. I hope Sunny slept better than I did last night because she’s about to have the earliest breakfast of her life.

I balance the tray on my side and move to knock on my old bedroom door, but Immy barges in before my knuckle hits the door, flicking on a dim yellow lamp.

“Immy, no—” I’m juggling a lot of food and can’t stop her.

“Sunny, get up! I made eggie toast for you and my dad!” She throws herself onto the edge of the bottom bunk, next to a sleeping Sunny.

The sight of her, sprawled across my bed, hair tangled around her face, with one foot flopping off the side, makes me regret my cold treatment of her the night before when my ego was bruised. She deserves so much better than me and my mess. I scan her frame in a respectful, gentlemanly way and when I see that she slept in my sweatshirt I realize something. This woman owns me. She deserves better, it’s true. But she owns me.

“What?” Sunny’s voice is rough from sleep, and she tugs the comforter up to her neck at the sight of us, squinting into the lamp light.

“Breakfast in bed!” Sunny cheers, then whispers to me. “Sit by her, Dad. Get in the bed.” She nudges my leg. “Sunny, you hafta sit up and make room for my dad.”

Sunny’s eyes are wide when she scrambles to prop herself against the headboard, leaving not quite enough room for me on the narrow bed. I can tell she’s half-asleep and numbly following my daughter’s bossy orders the best she can.

I love that my kid is giving me an excuse to get close to Sunny after things went south with us last night. I settle the tray on Sunny’s lap while I climb in beside her. I barely fit under the top bunk—we’re both half-hunched under here, following the orders of a five-year-old—but I’m enjoying the way Sunny is pressed against my side. I can feel her warmth through my sweatshirt she’s wearing and it’s a very good thing that my daughter is here to keep me in line.

“Thanks for being cool about this,” I murmur, taking the weight of the tray off of Sunny’s lap.

She clears the sleep out of her voice. “This is really nice, Im. I’ve never had breakfast in bed.”

“You’re going to love it. Normally my Morfie makes it, but he’s still asleep.”

I track Sunny’s gaze as it flits to the window and the darkness outside.

“Sorry,” I say under my breath. “It’s early.”

“It’s okay. This looks so good, kiddo,” she says to Immy before taking a sip of her chocolate milk. “Mmm. This is the best.”

“I know.” My daughter and her confidence. But she glows under the praise, watching as we both dig in. “Okay, I’m going to eat my breakfast. I’ll come get the tray in… thirteen minutes.”

I hear Sunny’s tiny snicker as Immy closes the door behind her, leaving us alone in the quiet room. I swallow. I want to make things right with us, but I don’t know how to start. She needs to know that I’m not blowing her off and that I want to talk, I just needed time to process. I can’t get the words to come out, though. I’m too distracted by Sunny and the fact that every point of contact from our shoulders to our hips feels magnetic.

“Thirteen minutes. We better get cracking.” She holds her chocolate milk aloft like she’s waiting to clink glasses for a toast.

I grab my glass and tap it to hers. “To breakfast in bed with a beautiful woman, even if it is at six a.m.” I regret the words immediately. I’m sure they won’t do much to convince her I’m anything but a philanderer.

She sighs. “To breakfast in bed with an incorrigible movie star.”

Joking. That’s a good sign. I take a bite of my egg toast, grateful to eat anything that isn’t served in a labeled, plastic container. I think about what to say while I chew.

“You’re right about me dragging Immy around, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

She coughs around her toast. “I wasn’t saying that. I—”

“I know it wasn’t you saying it, but it’s true, nevertheless.” I find her dark brown eyes. Man, she's pretty. “I’m thinking about it. I’m going to figure it out. I want you to know I love Imogen more than anything. There has to be a way for me to be a dad and… this.” I gesture to my body—to Anders Beck, the celebrity persona.

Her full lips turn up at the corners. “Millions of hot dads do it every day. You’ll find a way,” she teases.

I scoff. “Impossible. There aren’t millions of hot dads.”

She smiles at my stupid joke, nibbling on her toast. “You are a rare specimen, Anders. That much is true. ”

Her small smile stays in place while we finish our breakfast, which feels like a victory. I’m finishing the last bites of my overripe banana when Sunny stacks our dishes on the tray, because of course she’s the person who stacks her dishes after being served.

“Oh…” She uncovers a scrap of paper under her plate and unfolds it.

This has Imogen written all over it. I find a lot of notes in my luggage when I travel—surprise, joking threats, requests for souvenirs, and I-love-yous, in her misspelled, childish scrawl. I lean over to read the note, but to my surprise Sunny folds it before I can. Even in the dim light I can tell her face is pink.

“What does it say?” I ask with a laugh. What would she want to hide from me? I swipe for the note, but before I get close she shoves it down the front of her shirt for safekeeping. That makes me laugh even harder.

“So! What’s the plan today?” Her voice is loud, obviously trying to deflect. I let her. I can just ask Immy what the note says.

“I guess my brothers are coming. And one thing you should know about my family is we can’t get together without my mom giving us a project to finish. We’re doing tile today.” I think back on the texts I traded with my mom and her excitement to have her bathroom redone. My back already hurts thinking about it. I guess I’m glad my brothers are coming, after all. I’m kind of dreading any interactions they’ll have with Sunny, but at least there will be more hands to carry tile and buckets. A horror movie soundtrack plays in my mind at the thought of the grout water buckets. “It’s not too late. We can find a day spa for you. This is supposed to be your vacation.”

“Are you serious? Not a chance. I love doing tile. All of that planning and laying things out in order, with a finished product to look at immediately? Ultimate satisfaction.”

I should’ve known, but I shake my head at her. “There’s no way I’m letting my girlfriend retile my parents’ bathroom on her so-called vacation.”

She arches an eyebrow at the word, which was my precise intention. She doesn’t look thrilled with me. What else would I call a girl who I like to kiss and who I brought home to meet my parents? There isn’t a more accurate word for it. We can ignore the fact that Anders Beck, Inc. is paying her to take care of my daughter. That makes it sketchy.

I bump her shoulder with mine. “Besides, my mom’ll want you and Immy all to herself, far away from the back-breaking labor.

“We’ll see,” she says with a knowing look. “All right, I think our thirteen minutes are up. Shoo. I need to get dressed.” Then she actually shoos me out of my own bed with a playful shove.

I lean back under the bunk to grab our breakfast tray and tug playfully on the shoulder of her sweatshirt. “This looks good on you.”

Four hours later, I’m on my hands and knees spreading thinset onto my parents’ bathroom floor with a trowel. I’m also trying not to stare at Sunny’s backside as she does the same. She’s obviously done this before. She’s been bossing my brothers and me around all day. Or more accurately, she’s prevented us from making multiple near-disastrous home improvement decisions all morning. Tomato, tomahto.

Liam and Josh came in on the same flight from Chicago, where they work at a tech startup they founded. They crashed through the door early this morning with their backpacks and running critical commentary.

Sunny has taken to them like a butterfly to flowers and I could not be less pleased with the situation. I’ve been the butt-end of a lot of jokes today. I was worried about my brothers ganging up on Sunny and scaring her away. They’ve never liked any of the women I’ve dated, least of all Imogen’s mother. But it turns out I should’ve been worried about the three of them ganging up on me .

“Explain it to me again,” Liam says, because as the eldest son he feels entitled to justifications for my every decision. “How did you end up hiring your girlfriend to be your nanny?”

“I’m not his girlfriend.” Sunny corrects him for the tenth time, scraping a neat swirl of thinset off the concrete. “My family owns the resort where Anders is filming. He hired me to take care of Immy after he had to fire the old nanny at the last second.”

Josh coughs from where he’s perched on the closed toilet—which is sitting in my parent’s bathtub until the tile is finished—scrolling on his phone. “You fired another one?”

“Yep,” I snap at my baby brother. “You want to get off your butt and help, Yankee? Or are you going to sit there all day?”

“Why do they call you that?” Sunny asks Josh. She’s been like a boxing referee with us, trying to keep things light and above the belt. She doesn’t know that this is normal for us. It’s how we show love.

“He was born after we moved to the States,” Liam answers for him. “He’s the one true Yank of the family.”

“Ah,” Sunny says. “And you guys were born in Sweden?”

“ Ja ,” he answers, letting his voice get low and growly in a way that gets my hackles up. " ?kta svenskar .”

Is he trying to act sexy for her right now, whipping out the Swedish? And I swear he just puffed up his chest when he said that. Freaking Liam.

I slop a pile of thinset on the floor, spreading it out and scraping up the excess before Liam hands me a sheet of antiqued penny tile. We fit it into place next to the previous sheet, using a grout float to level it all out. Sunny taught us this trick. She’s working alone in her corner—precise, efficient, and gaining on us. Who knows what Josh is doing? Probably ordering a crate of protein powder or more mirrors. I get all the guff for being arrogant about my looks, but Josh is the real peacock of the family. It doesn’t help anything that he has the face and physique to back it up. Freaking Josh . I slap another mound of thinset onto the concrete .

“Easy, pal. Let’s take our time and do this right,” Liam chides.

Instead of shoving his head into the toilet and flushing, I pass him my trowel and let him take a turn. And just in time. Sunny’s phone buzzes on the counter and she hands her trowel to me.

“I’ll just be a second.” She takes her phone into the hall and closes the door behind her.

My brothers and I work in silence for a minute—except Josh, who is still scrolling on the toilet—before Liam chimes in like he can’t contain himself.

“She’s different.”

“How so?” I’ve almost caught up to where Sunny left off. Liam is slow.

“I don’t know. You brought her home, for starters.”

That’s true. I don’t bring anyone home. Cassidy was the only one, because things actually got serious. After her first visit she avoided my parents’ house like it was a construction site porta potty.

Liam continues, “She’s normal. Super cool, actually,” he says with a grunt. His voice echoes through the bathroom and I wish he was capable of a lower volume. He’s not. “And she’s an absolute smokeshow, but like in an authentic way.”

“She can move her face,” Josh adds, distracted by whatever is on his screen.

“Facial movement. I didn’t know the bar was so low.” I'm vigorously scraping the thinset off the concrete now.

“You know what I mean. And you act differently around her. It’s obvious that you respect her. You listen to her. Watch out for her. You’re not so dang self-absorbed. You’re like… pre-Hollywood Anders.” He’s really huffing and puffing over there.

“Hmm.” I place a sheet of penny tile that connects with the area where Liam has been working, lightly pressing it into the mortar. This will need to dry overnight before we can grout tomorrow. We’ll probably finish just in time to hop on the plane for Utah. The process has gone smoothly with Sunny’s help. We avoided the slowdowns caused by our usual mistakes in these projects our mother saves for us.

Speak of the devil. My mom walks in, looking every inch the retired elementary school teacher she is. I remember her embroidered denim jumper from before I moved out. It’s kind of comforting, actually. This place is like a time capsule. “How’s it going in—oh, it looks so good. I think I’m going to cry!”

“No. Don’t cry, Mom,” Liam begs. “There are men working here.”

“You cry if you want.” I shoot Liam a pointed look. I don’t blame her. This tile is a big step up from the 90s-era linoleum that my dad pulled off the floor in preparation for our visit.

“Thank you, boys.” Her eyes are red-rimmed and blinking. She gets weepy every time we come home. Then she makes a 90-degree turn in the conversation. “That Sunny is a real gem, huh?”

Here we go. I know she’s been biding her time, waiting for the opportunity to catch me alone for the interrogation. Not that I mind. She loves me and means well. I’ll take this over Oliver’s interrogations any day. At least with my mother I know she’ll encourage me to go after what I want—Sunny—instead of pushing her away.

Wait .

The realization that I want Sunny finally registers in my neanderthal brain like I just discovered fire. Not “want” like I need to devour her with kisses, although I do want that. I’m human. But the kind of “want” I’m feeling means roots. I want our roots and lives and everything to tangle together until it’s impossible to separate. I want to belong to her and I want her to be mine. This is the feeling that started at the emergency clinic after Immy’s skateboard accident. The rightness of it courses through me like the lifesaving heat from my neanderthal fire.

Immy called it.

Last week when she was freaking out on set, I’d been desperate to calm her down. In what I’ll own was not my finest parenting moment, I bribed her .

“I’ll give you whatever you want if you stop yelling and go back to the suite with Sunny.” I whispered in her ear. I knew it was terrible parenting. Desperation will do that.

“I want you to marry Sunny so she can live with us all the time,” she whispered back.

I almost fell on my butt, but I played along because it wasn’t my first hostage negotiation. “What if Sunny doesn’t want to marry me? She just met me.” I felt the dagger-like stares of the entire crew pressuring me to speed this along.

“Just so you know, Sunny loves you. I can tell. Just ask her, okay?”

So, I did the only thing I could do. I told my daughter I’d try my best, then I kissed Sunny in front of everyone. I had no choice. I didn’t want any other choice, and it was an excellent kiss.

“Oh, my.” My mother’s fading Swedish accent drags me out of my memory of Sunny’s lips. “Boy, you are in so deep.”

I know. I can’t go on denying what I feel for Sunny. I can’t act like it’s a meaningless crush and I’m only messing around, because it isn’t and I’m not. This is different from anything I’ve ever felt. My brain is rewiring, with Sunny and Immy at the center of it, and I want matching pajamas and rings in our future. “I’m—”

“You’re not being your usual self. I can see it. You’re being real.”

“Yeah, and… I think I love her.” I feel naked admitting this in front of my brothers, but I also realize I’ve got myself in a predicament. I need my mom’s help more than I care about my brothers’ judgment. “I love Sunny.” The more I say the words, the more that warm feeling moves through me.

“You can’t fall in love with the freaking nanny, you moron.” Liam grunts from his corner of the bathroom. “You realize the situation you put her in. You provide a paycheck. You’re in a power position. It’s totally screwed up, man.”

I glare at my brother. “Thanks, Dr. Phil. I know. I didn’t plan on this. ”

“What did you think would happen? Come to think of it, that’s the problem. You don’t think. We’ve all seen how you go after women,” he barks in his stupid, booming voice. “At least this time you seem for real. You actually love Sunny?”

I want to punch him, but his concession at the end stops me short. I can take my anger out on him later tonight over a round of Super Smash Bros. For now, I need to figure out some things. I drag my hands through my hair, remembering too late that my hands are covered in mortar. “Yeah. Settling down, two-point-five kids, arguing over how to load the dishwasher kinda love.” I groan, running my hands down my face. “What am I going to do?”