Page 5

“W ait!” I call toward the door when I realize Anders has left me on dog duty with no instructions and no idea what I’m supposed to do with these two all day. I’m less concerned about caring for a human child and more concerned about keeping this humongous beast from biting my face off.

The door is already closed, the men are gone, and Hairy drops her slobbery tennis ball on my sandaled foot. Cold slime oozes between my bare toes and Hairy whines.

“Um, no thanks.” I nudge the drool-covered ball toward the giant dog. “Sorry, Hairy. I’m not a dog person. It’s nothing personal. I was bitten by my friend’s mini schnauzer when I was twelve and ever since then I’m nervous around animals with teeth that are designed to shred flesh,” I explain with a shrug.

Hairy sighs deeply like she’s weary of being discriminated against.

Imogen looks up from her tablet. “Just so you know, she doesn’t know that many words. She just knows ‘sit’ and ‘outside’ and ‘walk’.”

Hairy sits, and tilts her head to the side with every new word.

“And Hairy is nice. She doesn’t bite.” Imogen goes back to her tablet, clicking away on YouTube. Her compact, bare feet barely reach past the edge of the couch cushion. Is it normal for a five-year-old to have open access to YouTube like that?

Hairy’s bowling ball-sized brown eyes blink at me.

What now? I silently plead with the canine. I expected a list of instructions. Maybe a schedule. But the dog just looks at me like, How am I supposed to know? I’m a dog.

Looks like I’ll be improvising—my favorite.

“How about some breakfast?” I ask Imogen. I’m done talking to the unhelpful dog.

“Okay. What do you want? There’s cereal.” Imogen hops off the couch and grabs my hand with her sweaty little fingers, pulling me toward the suite’s kitchen. “You should eat fast. We need to fix your smell.” I can tell she’s trying to breathe through her mouth. Poor thing.

“No, not for me. For you. Have you had breakfast?”

The little girl wanders ahead of me. “Not yet. I can make something, too. Want some eggie toast? That’s what Nan likes, ‘specially when her head hurts in the morning.”

I have so many questions, but my stomach makes me start with food, since I skipped breakfast while I washed and re-washed my hair. “What’s eggie toast?” I slide onto a metal barstool at the white marble counter.

“You’ll see. I learned how to make it from YouTube. First, I need a pan.” She opens and closes a few of the cupboards until she finds the pristine, unused frying pan that every suite is equipped with. Her small, nightgown-covered behind pokes out from the fridge and she emerges with eggs and a bag of shredded cheese.

I move to help her—not keen on mopping eighteen eggs off of this tile—and watch with wide eyes as the tiny girl drags a chair over to the stove. She stands on it and sprays cooking spray into the pan, lighting the gas burner before I realize what she's doing. “Uh, wait. Are you allowed to do this? ”

“Yep. My dad says I make the best eggie toast ever.” She uses a drinking glass to carve a circle out of the center of two pieces of whole wheat bread. She butters them on both sides and they sizzle when she drops them into the pan. It’s clear that she’s done this more than once. She tosses the bread circles to Hairy, who swallows them in one gulp without chewing. These two have a system. This must be how she keeps Hairy from biting off her face—bribery.

“This is the funnest part.” She messily cracks an egg into the hole of each slice of bread and sprinkles cheese over the whole thing. “I made up the putting cheese on it. The eggie toast on YouTube doesn't have cheese. At home I put some onion powder on it, too. That’s real yummy, but I don’t have any. When you do the next food order, can you get some?”

Food orders are the kind of thing that would be explained on a list of instructions. That’s why instructions are so important , I grumble to myself. I’ll be figuring that out, I guess. “Sure.”

When she flips the toast to cook the other side, the cheese sizzles and the aroma of cheese, toast, and eggs fills the room. My mouth is watering and I realize I’m hungrier than I thought. And once again, I think I love this child.

You’re doing a job , I remind myself. Short term .

A white plate appears in front of me on the counter and a spatula slides the egg creation onto it. Imogen drops her toast onto another plate and drags her chair right next to mine. I lift the toast to my mouth, taking a huge, cheesy, delicious bite. Heaven. I am nannying a chef.

“Wait,” she grabs my hand, “We need to say the blessing. Open your mouth.”

“Open my mouth?”

“To bless the food in your tummy.”

She watches me. A beat passes. Her blue eyes are a mirror image of her father’s. She’s serious, waiting for me to open my mouth so she can bless the food. Our eggie toast is getting cold .

My eyebrows furrow and I open my mouth.

She nods, pinches her eyes closed, and blesses the food. But she doesn’t stop there. “And please help Dad to not get hurt at work. Please help Hairy be a good girl. Thank you for Hairy. Thank you for this eggie toast I made. Thank you for my new nanny, Sunny. Please help us get the smell off of her because it is really stinky. The end.”

The end? I wait for more. She drops my hand and I realize that’s it. “Uh, amen.”

“The smell is in here, too,” Imogen informs me from her booster seat in the back of my car. She helped me find it in the suite and showed me how to put it in the backseat. She really is sharp for a little kid.

She’s buckled in and we’re making our way back to the resort from the grocery store. We picked up hydrogen peroxide and baking soda, along with some powerful shampoo. I’m crossing my fingers that it works. We’ll see. The home remedy video Imogen found was convincing, but it might singe the hair off my scalp. It will be worth it as long as it gets rid of the skunk funk.

How mortifying. To think I actually felt confident knocking on Anders Beck’s door this morning. I had my post-run endorphins pumping me up and my cutest jeans giving me false hope. But I will never forget the look on his face when I squeezed past him into the suite. That’s not a look a girl wants to see on anyone, least of all an unearthly handsome man. I feel my face getting hot as the moment replays in my mind on a loop. I’m going to find and destroy that A-hole skunk.

“I like it here.” Imogen says dreamily, gazing out the windows at the tiny desert town I’ve always called home. “It’s easy.”

“Easy?”

“Yep. It's not so crazy. There’s not so many people everywhere. ”

Huh. “Is it crazy at your house?”

Her sweet voice is wistful. “Yep. We have to be careful every time I go anywhere because lots of people try to talk to me and my dad.”

“That’s because your dad is famous, and because your dad is famous, people want to meet you.” And I realize at this exact moment the huge risk I took, taking Imogen into a public place. Weirdly, no one seemed to notice her at my side. She looks like a normal kid today. She dressed herself in a pair of overalls with a yellow t-shirt and let me brush her hair into a ponytail. We managed to walk in and out of a grocery store with barely a glance our way.

I also wonder what Micah Watson thinks of my hometown. I hope he loves it as much as I do. Maybe he’ll love it for the same reason Imogen does. Maybe he’ll want to move here…

“I don’t like it.” Imogen sighs, still watching the boring streets of my little hometown with fascination like it’s one of her YouTube videos.

It takes me a second to catch up. “You don’t like when people want to meet you?”

“Sometimes not. Sometimes people are nice, except I don’t like when they act like they know me. And sometimes my dad gets mad when people talk to us too much.” She gasps, “What’s that place?” she asks with the energy of a golden retriever that spotted a squirrel.

I can’t see what she’s talking about. I’m driving, so my hands are on the wheel at ten and two and my eyes are forward. “What place?”

“With the skating guy! Stop there!”

Oh. She means Hansen’s Rollerburger. The drive-in hamburger joint has a huge neon sign of a guy wearing roller skates, holding a giant hamburger. I guess I can see why it would catch a kid’s eye. It’s been a landmark in this town since the 1950s, so I don’t really notice the glaring, story-high neon sign anymore. My youngest sister actually works there to pay her way through college and has a shift today, I remember. I bet she’d love to meet Imogen Beck “by coincidence.”

“Want to check out Rollerburger? ”

“Yeah!”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. In my hurry to get out the door this morning I had forgotten to grab a Coke. I find a place to safely u-turn and we pull into a spot in the shade of the awning.

While we wait for our rollerskating server, I read the menu to Imogen. “They have hamburgers, shakes, and fries. Do you like that kind of stuff?”

“Yes!” She unbuckles herself, grunting as she climbs over the center console and into my front passenger seat. “Let’s try everything!”

“Everything?” I laugh. “I’m still sort of full from your awesome eggie toast. What if we both get a snack and we can share?”

“Okay. But just so you know, me and my dad like to try everything. Then you know what’s good.”

“That sounds smart.” And wasteful and expensive. Oliver dropped by while Imogen was dressing and armed me with Anders’ credit card, which feels surreal, but I’m not going to be irresponsible with it. “Maybe next time.”

My sister skates up to my window, “Hey, Sis! I thought you were working—” her fairy-like face screws up and she fans her nose. “Oof. Is that skunk?”

“Yep! And we got stuff to fix it!” Imogen is maybe a little too excited to experiment on my hair. “You’re so lucky you get to skate at your job!” The child of an actual movie star has stars in her eyes over my rollerskating waitress sister.

When my sister spots my passenger her mouth hangs open. “Hey, you’re—”

“Goldie, this is Imogen. I'm nannying her while her dad is in town.” Please be cool, I try to communicate with wide eyes. She is not known for her decorum in exciting situations. “Imogen, this is my sister, Goldie.”

“Hi, Imogen. What can I get you?”

Praise the skies, she’s acting normal .

We order a few simple things from the menu, including a large Coke for me and a small lemonade for Imogen because I don’t know if she’s allowed to drink soda. She insists her dad lets her have Coke, but caffeinating a tiny person sounds risky. We make our way back to the resort, eating our chicken nuggets and fried pickles while I drive because I’m anxious to de-funk my hair.

A few hours later I wake with a jolt. It takes a minute for me to process my surroundings. I’m lying on the couch in Anders’ suite, with Imogen curled into a ball at my side, and Hairy curled into a giant ball at our feet. This afternoon we had applied a mixture of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap to my hair and wrapped it up in a heavy white towel to do its thing. We decided to watch a movie while the solution worked on my hair, and we must have slipped into a fried food coma. I feel like I’ve been asleep for hours. What time is it? What year is it?

My eyes are still a little blurry, but I finally notice a pair of legs standing in front of me. I gasp and bolt upright when I realize it’s Anders. The big towel falls to my lap and my damp hair falls into my face. Imogen mumbles in her sleep.

“Sorry,” his hoarse voice whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you from your nap.”

That was no nap. That was the beginning of hibernation. I realize with shame that it’s dark through the windows. Anders must have turned on one lamp, and that’s the only light in the room. “What time is it?”

“A little after nine.”

“Seriously?” We slept for five hours?! I would say I can’t believe I slept so long, but I can believe it. I haven’t had a decent night of sleep in weeks, anticipating the arrival of the film crew. So really, it’s his fault. “I’m sorry. We turned on a movie and I guess that’s all it took.”

“No worries. Immy’s internal clock is off because we’ve been in Europe for a few weeks. We only had a few days at home before we came here.” He leans down to scoop her up, and she snuggles into his neck. “Help me get her to bed?”

“Sure.”

I follow him to Immy’s room, pinching the sensitive skin on my arm to keep me in the present before my imagination takes me somewhere I don’t belong. I pull down the comforter and adjust the pillow. Anders places her gently on the bed and pulls the covers over her, tucking them around her tiny form.

“G‘night, love,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

I sigh. I can’t help it, okay? Any red-blooded woman would sigh at that sight.

Anders follows me from her room, and I’m feeling self-conscious with my mangy mess of hopefully de-skunk-ified hair. Luckily, the suite is mostly dark. Maybe I can slip out before he turns on any more lights—

Click .

Too late.

The spacious living area is flooded with light and reality. I attempt to finger comb my hair into some semblance of order, but my fingers catch in the concoction that Imogen applied to my hair so many hours ago. It’s fine. I’m just the nanny. No one cares if the nanny has cute hair.

“How did it go today?” he asks, and I can tell he’s smiling even though I’m not looking.

I’m fully focused on finding my sandals. I kicked them off near the couch before our marathon nap. “It was great. Your daughter is very well behaved, and so intelligent.” Where are my shoes ?

“Thank you.” He clears his throat, “I guess you two figured out how to get rid of the smell?” He is really smiling. I wonder if he always smiles so much, or if I'm just lucky.

Or maybe he’s flirting with me. I dig my nails into my palms to stop that train of thought. He’s a celebrity heartthrob adored by millions who can crook his finger and any woman would come running. Anders is a player, you’re the nanny, and you’re in love with Micah. Act like it.

“You can’t smell it anymore?”

He shakes his head, and his grin makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners.

I sigh with relief. “Oh, thank goodness.” Maybe Imogen’s YouTube goo actually worked. Some of my usual confidence returns. “Imogen helped me find a mix of stuff to put on my hair that was supposed to get rid of the smell. I guess it did the trick. She’s a little genius. Honestly. She’s incredibly bright for her age.”

“She is, and she knows it. She tries to boss me around every day.” His voice is full of love for the little girl. It’s silent for a beat and he says, “Well, thanks for your help.”

Oh, right. I’m supposed to be leaving right now. “You’re welcome. Same time tomorrow?” I ask as he leads me toward the door.

How does Anders smell so good after a long day of work? He has this clean ocean scent that makes me feel like I’m standing on the bow of a boat with the wind in my face. Everything about him sends a thrill through me, even his scent. I need to get away from him so I can get my head on straight.

“Yep.” He opens the door for me, swinging it wide so I can pass through. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I nod.

See? I can be professional. This is a business transaction. I am nailing this nanny thing. I’ll feel like my usual self in no time.

He closes the door behind me. I take one step on the walkway and realize I’ve forgotten my shoes .

No way am I knocking on that door to get my sandals. It’s okay. I can get them tomorrow. I’d rather walk to my car and drive home barefoot than admit that I’m so flustered by Anders and his dumb, sexy ocean scent that I forgot to put on shoes. This is fine. I just need one good night of sleep and tomorrow I’ll be back in control.

For now, I’m stepping lightly on the sandstone path toward my car, trying not to think about scorpions or lizards or any other nocturnal creatures my bare feet might encounter in the dark. The thought has me high stepping on my tiptoes like a cartoon burglar.

“Sunny,” Anders' voice behind me makes me jump. He jogs toward me. “You forgot your shoes.”

Sinkholes always open up and swallow cars and houses at inconvenient times, but never when you need them. Like right now. I would appreciate it if a sinkhole would save me from this moment. Where’s a natural disaster when a gal wants one?

I blush from my face all the way down to my conspicuously bare toes when Anders hands me my shoes. “Oh, those. Right.” It’s strange to me that Anders Beck was just holding my favorite worn-in sandals. I drop them on the ground and slide my feet into them one at a time. “Thanks. Not sure how I forgot these,” I say with an awkward chuckle.

“Immy’s mother calls it Mom Brain. You’ll get used to it.”

My heart sinks. “Is Nanny Brain a thing?” I try to joke. If so, I think I’ve had Nanny Brain since he got here yesterday.

“I don’t know, but if so it suits you. See you tomorrow, Ginger," he says in his warm voice that makes my heart trip.

“It’s Sunny. Now look who has Nanny Brain.” I laugh and give him a little wave. I’m a little stung, but not exactly surprised that he can’t remember my name. “See you tomorrow.”

I walk into my condo fifteen minutes later to find Mercer draped across our couch in the dark, with the original Micah Watson/Anders Beck movie playing at full volume. The windows are rattling.

“Why is it so loud?” I shout above the sound of roaring, fire-breathing creatures duking it out.

“Exposure therapy,” she shouts back, eyes glued to the screen.

I can’t live like this. I swipe up the remote and turn down the volume. “Exposure therapy for who?”

“For you, so you can act normal around Micah.” There’s an unspoken “duh” in her tone.

“I think it might work better if I watch it with you.” I shoot her a knowing look, “Keep pretending you aren’t Team Micah. You almost pull it off. Speaking of, did you see him today?”

I flip on the lights, grateful to be back in familiar, comfortable territory. I’m also ready to put a dent in the bag of Rainier cherries I put in the fridge a few days ago. I’m hungry for fruit. I turn toward our olive green refrigerator, which is original to our condo’s 1970s construction. Those old appliances are just built different. That fridge will probably outlive me. It’s the only thing in the condo that hasn’t been updated, so it makes a funny contrast with our subway tile backsplash and wide plank hickory floors.

“Girl, what did you do?” Mercer’s shocked voice follows me into the kitchen.

“What?” I pull my cherries out of the fridge to find that the bag is almost empty. “Did you eat my cherries? And stop dodging my question. Did you see Micah Watson today or not?”

“Yeah, I saw him for like a second before his golf cart almost ran me into the bushes, thanks for your concern. And yeah I ate your cherries. They were delish.” She boosts herself to sit on the kitchen counter. “What did you do to your hair?”

“You turd! I was looking forward to those cherries all day.” I should’ve hidden them somewhere Mercer would never find them, like inside a box of baby spinach or with the cleaning supplies. I nibble into one of the last juicy cherries. “Imogen and I put some stuff in my hair that’s supposed to get the smell out.” I remember I haven’t seen her all day and add, “I ran through a cloud of skunk this morning and I still need to rinse it out. Anyway, what did Micah look like today?” I pluck the stem off another cherry and sigh dreamily. “Ugh. I still can’t believe you’re having Micah Watson sightings at Nizhóní. So unreal.”

She ignores my question and commentary. “First of all, that’s why I don’t run. Second of all, I think whatever you put on your hair did something to it.” She’s biting back a grin that makes my stomach drop.

I dart to the mirror by our front door. I’m so confused by what I see that I run to my bathroom where the light is better. Maybe it’s just the lighting in the living room. And the kitchen.

I flip the light switch and gasp. There are two women in the mirror. My blonde-haired best friend whose mouth is turned down in a worried frown, but the twinkle in her eyes tells a different story. The other woman in the mirror looks like my horrified twin, except her hair is orange. Dayglow orange. A little bit of chestnut brown hair shows through where Imogen didn't apply the anti-skunk paste thoroughly.

"I'm… I'm a Cheeto."

"Dude, it's not that bad."

"Well, it's not good!" I shriek.

"We'll fix it before anyone sees it."

Oh, no .

I think back on the past hour and every interaction I had with Anders. I remember his constant, endearing grin that I figured was just well-practiced, meaningless flirtation.

It was not flirtation.

Oh, nooooo .

At least I never ran into Micah Watson, despite the fact that I took the long way to my car and walked extra slowly past his suite tonight. I look at Mercer. I have no words. My eyes well with tears. “That’s why he called me Ginger.”

“Who called you that? Anders?” She rolls her eyes. Mercer has zero tolerance for baloney from men, even famous, rich, hunky ones. “How original.”

I nod miserably.

“How about this? I’ll run to the store and get a box of dark brown hair dye. While I’m gone, you wash that junk out of your hair and remember that he’s just a guy and in ten years none of this will matter.” She squeezes me in a side hug, “Okay, Ed?”

“Ed?”

“Ed Sheeran,” she cackles at me. “Go wash your hair.”