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D ay one of filming. It’s a little before eight in the morning. I take a swig from my huge, insulated water bottle—this dry desert air is no joke—and I’m ready to go to make-up. Oliver and the new nanny should be here any minute. I only ever beat Oliver out the door on the first day of shooting, because I’m always so antsy on day one. The rest of the time, he’ll be pounding on my door and driving me crazy while I’m still in the bathroom. But I’m pacing in front of the couch in my suite, humming the words to my usual Mariah Carey song.

This is my calming routine when I have the first day jitters. I get my Mariah on. My mom raised me on her songs, so they ground me. I can sing most of them by heart, and this one is her particular favorite. It’s an intense, vocally-challenging pop number (is her music anything but vocally-challenging?) about the sweet, sweet fantasy Mariah has about a boyfriend. It shouldn’t be calming—in fact, it should be deeply embarrassing—but whatever. It’s my process. I don’t question the process that has led to Academy Award nominations. I give in to the urge to sing, belting out the final chorus.

There’s a soft knock at the door and I jump.

“One second!” I holler, swiping my water bottle, ready to get a move on .

When I open the door, the breath gets sucked right out of my lungs. The suites at this resort have exterior doors facing the open desert, so there’s a stone walkway, orange sand, and mint green sagebrush trailing up to sheer, sandstone cliffs for a backdrop. The sun is coming up over the distant mountains and beams of yellow light shine around the figure who knocked on the door.

It’s Sunny. Of course she would arrive in an actual halo of sunlight. And she’s wearing those dang glasses again. She’s also wearing a pair of jeans that make her hips look extra squeezable, and a little white t-shirt. The corners of her full lips are turned up, like she knows something I don’t. I can’t breathe right.

“Come in,” I say on a shaky exhale. The last functioning part of my brain instructs me to open the door for her, so I do—about ten inches. She’ll only just be able to squeeze past me. The little devil on my shoulder gives me a high five.

Her eyebrows furrow behind her glasses and she scoots past me into the suite. I feel her warmth and try to catch a whiff of her hair.

Oh no.

I expected her to smell like coconut or pink lemonade or something sunny—anything but whatever this funk is.

“Ugh. What is that?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. The odor is that jarring. I try breathing only through my mouth, but I don’t want to taste it. I pull my shirt up over my nose.

She darts away from me. “I’m sorry!” She stands against the opposite wall, as far from me as she can get. Her face is flushed red. “I got skunked on my run this morning! It wasn’t a direct hit, but I think I ran right through it. I washed my hair four times !” She lifts a strand of her long, chestnut hair and makes a confused face. “I thought it was gone! How bad is it?” The panic in her voice is adorable.

I cough into my shirt. My mom raised a gentleman, but not a liar. “It smells like you boiled a few pounds of ground beef in a pot of bleach. ”

“Geez, okay!” she complains.

“And left it out in the sun for a week—”

“All right!” she snaps.

“Then used the bleachy beef juice like perfume.” I can’t stop smiling. She’s as fun to mess with as Oliver. This was just the distraction I needed from my Day One nerves.

“You—” she starts, but she’s interrupted by the man himself walking through the open door.

Oliver’s face screws up. “What on earth is that smell?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I smell like a hot pile of garbage," she snaps. Her glasses slide down her nose and she shoves them back into place.

Oliver gives her his version of side-eye, which is probably terrifying for someone who doesn't know him.

Immy chooses this moment to stumble out of her room, with Hairy hot on her heels as always. She stops so fast it’s like she walked into a glass door.

“Ew! Why’s it so stinky in here?” She’s not a morning person. “Daaaad!” she grouches at me, "You smell so bad!"

Even Hairy whines.

“It’s not me! It’s Sunny,” I don’t feel bad about blaming her for the smell. Mother Teresa wouldn’t take the fall for that stench. “Your new nanny got sprayed by a skunk,” I say through my shirt, gesturing to Sunny, who is plastered against the furthest wall away from everyone. Look, don't touch? Not going to be a problem today.

“I can fix it! I saw it on YouTube!” Immy runs into the other room, probably to get her tablet.

“Ready?” I ask Oliver.

“Wait, don’t you have instructions for me?” Sunny steps away from the wall, looking panicky.

I hold a hand toward her, “That’s close enough.” I smirk, “Your only job is to keep Imogen alive and figure out how to get rid of that smell. ”

She casts a withering glance behind those cute librarian glasses. “Right. But is she allergic to anything? What’s her routine? Do you have any rules I should know about?”

Oliver barks out a laugh. It’s a rare sound, so it startles me. I glare at him. He's such a butthead.

“Immy will tell you her routine,” I explain. “Just keep her alive. And I’m serious about the smell. Do whatever you have to do.” I turn toward the door.

“But—” she looks really worried.

“You’ll be fine. My number is in Immy’s phone if you have an emergency. Or you can always call Darth Oliver here.” I smack my friend on the shoulder. “We gotta get going. Day one.”

“I’ll shoot you an email,” Oliver says to Sunny. He lets the "Darth Oliver" thing slide. He knows how I get on the first day of shooting.

“Bye, Im! Love you!” I call toward the back of the suite.

“Wait!” She darts back into the room with her huge tablet pressed to her chest. She drops it on the floor and wraps her arms around my legs. “I love you, Dad!”

“Love you, too, Immy. See you later, okay?”

Her scrawny arms squeeze tighter. “Just five more minutes.”

Five more minutes is Immy’s thing. It’s how she gets what she wants. “I can’t, kiddo. I have to go to work. You need to stay here and take care of Sunny. Make sure she doesn’t make Hairy sick with that stink, okay?” I peel her off of my legs and hoist her up to eye level, blow a raspberry on her cheek, and put her down.

I turn to Sunny, who is rosy-cheeked and flustered. "Don't forget to grab my number out of Immy’s phone. Good luck today." I wink. I can't help it. It's like my eyelid is hardwired to do that when a tempting female appears. I'm programmed to ruffle calm, pretty feathers.

Oliver clicks the door shut behind us and we're not even three steps down the walk when he says, "No."

"What?" I think I know and it better not be what I think .

"You know what." He claps a hand on my shoulder with a little more force than necessary. "I get it. She's hot. But we talked about this. Look, don't touch. You pay me to keep your life on track and I'm telling you right now, keep things above board with Nanny Sunny."

I shrug him off. "You know what? That sounds even stupider than Nanny Nan." I chuckle and take a swig of water. I joke because I'm not in the mood to have my nose rubbed in my old weakness, which is doing stupid stuff with beautiful women and losing my mind. But I haven’t done that stuff in a long time. And I haven’t done anything with Sunny. Yet.

"Anders. Just let her be the nanny. You can screw around with whoever you want after the premier. Until then, stay focused and keep your nose clean. Day one."

I kick a pebble into the shrubs by the pathway. This will end quicker if I tell him what he wants to hear. "Yeah. Day one."