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I am in love with Imogen Beck. Well, I guess her real name is Imogen Beck Abrahamson. She has Anders' true surname, which is a mouthful. Either way, I wish she were mine. The place in my heart that has felt painfully hollow since high school feels practically cavernous with this sweet girl sitting beside me. I can throw her hair into a pencil bun like mine and laugh with her about her slobbery dog, but I can’t let Immy's pure light fill me with longing. This is one instance where I won’t allow myself to daydream. It hurts too much.

I slip my glasses on her face to complete the Boring Businesswoman look. She makes a cross-eyed face at me and giggles when the glasses slide down her nose.

I look away from her to scan the lobby for something—anything—to distract me from this train of thought. I’ve checked the rear entrance periodically for any sign of Micah Watson, but no such luck. The guy disappeared after check-in and hasn’t been seen since. It’s a little deflating, but probably for the best. Dang it.

I check the back door one more time, just to be sure. That’s when I catch Anders and Oliver having a silent argument while they shoot tense nods at each other and in my direction. The exchange goes on for an awkward while until they see me staring .

“What?” Am I not supposed to interact with Imogen? My mind races back to all of the legal documents I signed to prepare for our celebrity guests and their offspring, but I don’t remember anything about not fraternizing with the children. I thought I was helping out, in my inept way.

Anders shoots one last nod at Oliver and the man purses his lips in response. I swear I hear him call Anders a chicken under his breath as he marches my direction. Geez, the guy even walks like a sci-fi supervillain. I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong and have nothing to be nervous about.

Luckily, I’m saved by my best friend. Mercer plops on the couch next to me, probably bored to death and ready to go home since her job was done hours ago. But last night I made her promise to be my wingwoman today to keep me from doing anything embarrassing or tabloid-worthy. She’s the only person in the world who knows about my obsession with Micah, and she enjoys letting me know when I’m acting a fool.

She gives knuckles to Imogen and kicks her feet up on the coffee table, all of her nervousness from earlier long gone. She has no idea how much her don’t-give-a-crap attitude calms me down when it isn’t driving me bananas.

“Thank you,” I breathe at Mercer, hopefully quiet enough that Darth Oliver can’t hear.

“We have an emergency,” he says, like I wasn’t diligently eavesdropping during the whole soap opera scene with Nanny Nan.

“Do you need a nanny?” I’m already combing my mind for an employee we can afford to spare for a few months who would also be a trustworthy caregiver. It’s a short list. I hope he has a backup plan.

Anders arrives, slinging his big arm around Oliver, “We have a proposition for you—” he stops mid-sentence when he spots Imogen. “No. Absolutely not. No. Take off those glasses, young lady. And take that pencil out of your hair, while you’re at it.” His icy eyes are stern, like I gave his daughter meth or Fun Dip or something equally egregious.

Wow. Someone’s testy. Even Oliver looks at Anders in shock.

Anders sighs and rubs the back of his neck, as if I require all of the patience in the world. His ridiculously large bicep mocks me in my embarrassment. His face is red. “Oliver has a request.” He holds a hand out to his daughter, “Come on, kiddo. Let’s let the grownups talk.”

“You’re a grownup, Dad.”

“Nah. Let’s go find some Skittles.”

The two wander away, tiny hand in giant hand, with Hairy trotting at their heels. I feel myself sigh and Mercer stabs me with her pointy elbow—our weapon of choice today, apparently. I know I’m staring. Just one…more…peek. And there’s Mercer’s elbow again, and this time she clears her throat in an obnoxious way. Ugh. Why am I staring at Anders Beck? Gross.

“We have a request. We need a nanny, and Anders wants you.” Oliver’s tone says Anders Beck gets what he wants.

“He wants me ?” I sound mildly disgusted, but deep, deep inside my ego is enjoying this.

Mercer clarifies under her breath, “He wants you to be his nanny.”

“I know, but I have to… do my job. You know. Run the resort.” I have no other answer or solution to this problem because my brain is short-circuiting.

Of course I want to say yes to Oliver, and I should—if there was ever a time to give our guests what they want, this is it. But who will do my job? And besides—I’m ashamed to admit the thought crossed my mind—if I’m shut away in Anders’ suite nannying, the odds of “accidental” run-ins with Micah Watson go way down. It would be ideal, and yet horrible. I don’t want to do it.

“Joe can handle your stuff.” Mercer scoffs under her breath, “Like it’s hard. ”

“Excuse you? We literally have an entire film crew staying here that I need to keep track of.” I shoot down Mercer’s crazy idea by default, but even as I say it I realize she’s right.

My older brother Joe can absolutely handle my job, because up until a few months ago it was his job. He was running this place long before I even started folding towels for housekeeping. He’s had me take on more and more responsibilities as he’s been distracted for months planning a wedding and building a house. It won’t kill him to take a break from all of that to help out with the family business again. Plus, there’s no way he’ll let me say no to our most important guests ever.

But what about my heart? I’ve babysat before and it wasn’t bad, but playing house with a little girl—especially one I already feel so drawn to—might destroy me. Spending months nurturing and teaching a child, only to have her ripped away at the end of it will hurt.

But then another picture pops into mind—one where Anders comes back to the suite after an exhausting day of filming. I make a nice dinner for him. We chat and laugh about our days. We tuck Immy into bed. Our fingers brush when we turn out the light. He wraps his big warm fingers around mine, pulls me to him, and—

“Dude,” Mercer whisper-shouts at me and I barely dodge her pointy elbow.

Where on earth did that come from?

“I’d love to help,” I feel myself saying. It’s fine. It’s not like I’ll be in Micah Watson’s suite all day—just his arrogant, skirt-chasing co-star’s. The random, PG-13 daydreams I’m suddenly having of Anders are a fluke. It’ll be fine.

Is this really happening?

Fireworks launch in my stomach as the reality of what I’ve agreed to settles in my mind. I feel a confusing combination of excitement, nervousness, joy, and worry at the prospect of nannying Imogen Beck.

This is going to be so much fun.

This is going to hurt.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.