Page 7
I stare at Anders’ chin while I talk because it’s at my eye level, and because looking into his eyes makes my knees buckle. This conversation requires strength. No one but Mercer knows about my Micah Watson obsession and she doesn’t even know the “why” behind it. Maybe letting it out will be therapeutic. In a few months, Anders Beck won’t remember my name let alone what I’m about to tell him, but maybe this will help me get over Micah Watson once and for all.
“I was in a bad car accident when I was fourteen. I lost my dad.” I blink hard to stop the familiar moisture that comes whenever I talk about him, even after twelve years. So much was taken from me that day. Not only my father, but my ability to have children. That one patch of black ice changed my whole future.
Anders’ big hand covers mine and I freeze. He pulls it away just as quickly and I plow ahead. “I was in the hospital for a few weeks. It was a hard time. I missed the funeral. I cried that whole day—” I snap my mouth shut. I’m sharing way too much; more than I’ve ever told anyone. I don’t know why I’m so comfortable telling Anders this stuff—maybe it’s his easy going nature that loosens my lips. He also feels surreal. Sitting in this dim lighting with him feels dreamlike, like I’ll wake up in my bed at any moment.
His eyes catch mine and there’s that weak feeling. Will I ever get used to this guy and his blinding star power? It’s insane. I know enough about this guy that I shouldn’t be reacting this way to him.
“I’m sorry.” His blue eyes are intense.
“It’s okay. It was a rough time, but I’m good now. Anyway, my family was at the funeral, and I was alone in the hospital, having the pity party of a lifetime. A nurse came in. She talked me through it and turned on that movie. It was light and fun.”
I smile as I recall the comfort of a simple love story during an excruciating time. It was like anesthetic for my heartbroken fourteen-year-old soul. For years, Micah filled the cracks in my heart. I could’ve turned to drugs or alcohol or even comfort eating in my grief. Instead, I turned to Micah Watson, his dashing, dark looks, and a continuous stream of unhealthy daydreams. Micah Watson is my coping mechanism, and his worst movie of all time (I can acknowledge this to myself, at least) is my drug of choice. But all I tell Anders is: “It was just what I needed that day.” He doesn’t need to know that I’m infatuated with his co-star.
“Well,” he crosses his arms, “I feel like a major jerk.”
“You shouldn’t. I get it. Technically speaking, it is the worst of your movies.” I guess I can acknowledge it to him. Look at that.
He scoffs. “You can’t know that. You haven’t really seen all of them.”
Except I have. If a movie contains a hint of Micah Watson, I’ve seen it. Anders has been in a handful of movies that don’t co-star Micah, and I’ve watched them just in case. He is Micah-adjacent, and a girl can never be too thorough. “That’s true.”
My pants? Officially on fire.
He makes a “hmm” noise next to me and rubs his five o'clock shadow. “What’s one you haven’t seen? ”
I pretend to think for a minute because I’m stalling. I could recreate this man’s iMDB page from scratch with no notes. I choose one of his lesser-known historical dramas that came out when I was seventeen years old, right after the first installment of the Let’s Do This series. It was a box office bomb. He’ll buy that I haven't seen it. Of course, I saw it the night it opened. “ Contagion 1918 .”
"We're watching it." He stands and makes his way to the couch like I'm going to follow him.
I do, obviously. "Watching it right now? That movie is like seven hours long. Is your ego really that delicate?” I tease him while looking at my watch.
It’s 9:30. According to the schedule Oliver emailed yesterday afternoon while Imogen and I were taking our long nap, I’m supposed to be here at seven tomorrow morning. He also emailed a link to Immy's remote tutor and a list of dos and don’ts for this gig. My law-abiding personality appreciated every last bullet point. I read the thing at least three times while my brown hair dye processed and I can almost recite it on command. Rule number one: “NO FLIRTING WITH ANDERS OR YOU WILL RUIN THIS VERY IMPORTANT MOVIE AND POTENTIALLY HIS CAREER," was typed in all-caps. Of course, it was written in legalese, but that was the gist. Point taken, Darth Oliver.
Anders’ eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s three hours long, Grandma. But it’s fine if you don’t want to watch. I’ll just turn it on and we’ll see what happens.” He swipes the remote and drops onto the plush white couch, crossing his long legs on the coffee table. Even his tan, bare feet are cute, which I didn't think was possible. It’s annoying.
He presses a bunch of buttons on the remote and I’m frozen, standing next to the couch while I deliberate. On one hand, this feels risky for about a hundred reasons. The main reason being that Oliver was very clear that any blurring of the nanny/boss line will not end well for me legally, and I'm scared of Oliver. On the other hand, we’re not technically flirting or doing anything inappropriate, plus I’d get to live out the fantasy of millions of teenage girls. I’m also capable of self-control. The fact that so many acquaintances have teasingly called me Grandma attests to that.
I’m no dummy. I lower myself onto the couch a friendly distance from Anders and keep my feet firmly planted on the rug. If I relax too much I might forget I’m the small-town, fill-in nanny and he’s an international superstar whose ex-wife is a European supermodel. It’s laughable that Oliver is worried about me flirting with Anders. We couldn’t be more mismatched. He’s champagne and he’s used to dating caviar. I’m fried pickles and Coke.
“Don’t most actors hate watching their own movies?”
“Which actors told you that?” he chuckles while the movie opens.
“I must’ve read it somewhere.” Like in an interview you did with Micah nine years ago.
“I don’t mind it. In the early days I hated it. I don’t have any control over the end product—editing, sound, stuff like that. I thought I could make better creative choices and that was irritating. But with experience I’ve learned that these projects aren’t just mine. I’m one part of a whole machine that makes these movies happen.” He slings a heavy arm across the back of the couch behind me, no big deal. “I’m lucky to be able to be more selective about who I work with, and I trust the team.”
I don’t hear a word he says. Every square inch of my shoulders feels the warmth and weight of his arm and it’s all I can focus on. I didn’t sit too close to him, but somehow it feels like his arm is curled around me. Am I inching toward him or is he inching toward me? Is he trying out one of his overused moves on me? Do I care? I’m not sure.
“Huh.” I pretend to be engrossed in the movie, which isn’t difficult when one of my favorite actors is the lead. I might not be in love with the guy, but I’ve developed a healthy appreciation for his body of work over the past decade or so. I begrudgingly admit that his actual body isn’t bad, either.
We spend the next three hours watching the movie from a friendly distance. He comments on the actors he worked with and shares the little bits of trivia he can remember. His movie commentary is pure gold, and I eat it up. It turns out to be one of the best nights of this film junkie’s life.
Eventually, the credits roll and Anders moves his arm off the back of the couch. I’m guessing his hand is completely numb by now. He flexes his fingers and hides a yawn against his elbow as we stand from the couch. “See? That was arguably better than your favorite, right?”
“Wrong,” I say through a yawn, because his yawn was contagious. I’m too tired and braindead to form an argument. This is why I never stay up this late. I hate feeling like this. “ Let’s Do This is your finest work. I stand by that.” I grab my purse while sliding my feet into my sandals at the door. It takes a few tries, but at least I’m leaving with my shoes tonight.
“Clearly, we’re going to have to watch the rest so you can form a legitimate objective opinion. For science.” He opens the door for me, “Are you okay to drive?”
He’s not allowed to be so sweet. “You’re not allowed to be so sweet.” Dang it. I’ve reached that stage of sleepiness—the brain-to-mouth diarrhea stage. “Sorry. Um, yeah. I’m okay to drive. Thanks for the movie.” I giggle a little, as if that won’t destroy all evidence that I'm of sound mind. Get out of here before you do something even more goofy, Sunny.
He leans against the door jamb in that alluring way I’ve seen him do on the screen, with his arms folded across his chest. Does he know how that looks? Is he being sexy on purpose? “It was fun,” he says in that gravelly voice. There’s no way he’s doing this by accident.
There’s barely enough room for me to scootch past him. I swear he does this on purpose, too. I squeeze through the door, getting one last whiff of his beachy scent. “Yeah. Fun. G’night!” I holler as I speed walk into the night, to the sound of Anders chuckling behind me.
It’s one in the morning when I park in front of my condo. My phone buzzes in my cup holder almost immediately. It’s my brother, Joe. Who died? That’s the only plausible reason my brother would call in the middle of the night. My heart is galloping.
I slide to accept the call and whisper, “Hello?”
“Sunny!” he exhales into my ear. “She’s fine,” he says to whoever is in the background. It’s most likely his fiancée, Indie. “Where’ve you been? Everyone has been looking for you.” The relief in his voice rings loud and clear.
“I’m nannying, remember? Why didn’t you just call me?” That’s when I notice I have multiple missed calls and texts from him, Mercer, and my mom. Oops. That’s what I get for walking out to my car with hearts in my eyes like a cartoon character. I’ve completely ignored my phone. In my defense, I didn’t think anyone would be panicking about my whereabouts.
“You’re nannying until one in the morning?” He’s switching into big brother mode, which is as endearing as it is irksome.
“Yeah, it was a long night.” I yawn loudly to drive the point home, praying that he’ll drop it so I can go inside and sleep. Right now, all I can think about are my feather pillow and cool sheets.
“I thought filming wrapped around nine? A bunch of the crew had dinner at the resort tonight. I saw Anders Beck skip dinner and walk back toward the suites.”
Who is he, the KGB? “It’s late, Joe. I’m tired. Thanks for covering things for me, but can we talk tomorrow?” Can we reschedule this interrogation ?
“I just want to make sure nothing inappropriate is happening. That wouldn’t be good for anyone. I know you’d never do anything, but listen, that guy better keep his hands—”
There’s a shuffling sound on his end of the phone, then, “Sunny?” It’s Indie, bless her. “Your brother was just worried. We’re glad you’re okay,” she says emphatically, like her words are intended for Joe. I can hear the big dork in the background making threats. “Why don’t we see each other more often? We need to catch up. Let’s get lunch one of these days. I want to hear all about your cool nanny gig, but I’m going to let you go. Good night! Say good night, you big oaf,” she sasses Joe.
Suddenly, Indie is fighting back a laugh, and the phone makes a scuffing sound. I can hear Joe’s deep voice teasing her. Now she’s giggling. Gag.
“You guys are gross,” I say, ending the call before I hear anything worse.
Not enough hours later that morning, I park near the front reception area so I can check on my baby before nanny duty begins. I’m never “away” from Nizhóní for this long, ever, and I don’t like it. Between Joe, my mother, and Mercer, the resort should be under control without me. In fact, Joe has helpfully reminded me that I’m still the Padowan to his Jedi in terms of managing this place, the big nerd. So I’m sure everything is running smoothly.
It’s fine.
I’m positive that it’s fine.
I’d better just pop in, though. And if I happen to bump into a certain movie star in the process, so be it.
I check my hair in the glass door on my way inside, relieved to see that the straw-like strands are still glossy from the treatment I did this morning. It will be months before my hair fully recovers from the skunk treatment. But the only thing that will help the dark circles around my eyes will be getting more than four consecutive hours of sleep. That needs to happen soon. I yawn as I swing open the door.
“Hey, Merce.” I smile at my friend, who hurriedly removes her boots from her desk.
“Hey. You’re here early. I never heard you come in last night.” She pumps her eyebrows up and down like a cartoon character. “I tried to call you. Joe was freaking out. Wild night?”
I blush at the memory of my movie night with Anders, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t like how freely my mouth runs when I get that tired. That can’t happen again. And Mercer doesn’t need to know the details of my late night with Anders. She’ll read way too much into it and say something incriminating at exactly the wrong time. Best to keep that information to myself for now.
“Something like that. How are things here?” I look around, relieved yet disappointed to see that the place is still standing, despite my absence. “This place is a ghost town.”
“Yeah, it’s these movie people. They don’t come inside so much. The ones who actually eat have the kitchen deliver everything to their rooms.” She leans across the desk and leans toward me conspiratorially. “We get phone calls with the most oddball requests, and always at the worst times. Like last night I had to run to the store to grab this very specific brand of coconut oil for Frankie, Micah Watson’s assistant, because someone could not live without it at ten o’clock at night.” She rolls her eyes.
My ears are fully perked. What does Micah Watson need coconut oil for? Is he conditioning his hair with it? Making a smoothie? I love learning these details about his preferences in real life, and not from diving way too deep in an online forum at two in the morning—not that I would ever do that. I am so invested in this coconut oil mystery, that I forget to maintain my standard calm, cool facial expression. I realize I’m grinning like an idiot when Mercer’s cackle echoes down the long, tiled foyer.
“Team Micah means you’re on Team Dr. Bronner’s Coconut Oil now. Better stock up, you weirdo.”
“Shh!” I hiss.
I’ve never been comfortable with my friends and family knowing I’m on Team Micah. The last thing I want in this world is for Micah Watson to know I’m on Team Micah. He needs to think I’m a mature, fascinating, intellectually-rounded woman. He doesn’t need to know the truth.
“Oh, relax. Frankie is probably waking him up to the sound of gentle rain and the smell of freshly brewed espresso as we speak. There’s no way he heard me.”
What a life Frankie has. Maybe I could talk her into trading jobs for a day or two? My shoulders tense at the thought of entrusting Imogen to anyone else, though. The tiny voice in the back of my head reminds me that Imogen has made it this far without me, and that after this film shoot she’s not my responsibility. Now my whole upper body is tense. I am worried about too many things that are outside of my control at the moment—Nizhóní, Imogen, and whether Mercer has been kicking her boots onto the desk around our guests all week.
“You need a massage. You should book one.” Mercer leans back in her chair. “You look like you’re losing it.”
“I’m just tired,” I say through a yawn.
“You know we’ve got this. You have to trust us. Pretend you’re on vacation.”
When have I ever taken a vacation? I work at an actual resort, which I love. I don’t need a vacation. Until my obnoxious best friend distracted me with thoughts of Micah Watson, there were a few things that I legitimately needed to check on, though.
“Did you put in the order for the—”
“Yes. Yesterday.” Mercer quirks an eyebrow like a challenge .
“What about the—”
“Joe took care of the issues with the grounds crew. Yes.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Yes, you were.”
I hang my head.
“I promise we’ve got this. You gotta let yourself have fun, for once. Let your hair down.”
I frown at her. I have fun all the time. When I tell Mercer as much she laughs right in my face.
“I say this with all of the love of someone who has known you since elementary school: No, you don’t. You’re always worried about everyone and everything, which is a great quality until you take it too far and try to control everything. Let go. Be selfish for five minutes. The world won’t explode.” Her grin is suspicious. “You might even get to first base with a handsome movie star.”
Anders’ face flashes through my mind—specifically his angular, stubbled jawline—and I swear I can still feel the weight of his arm that was slung behind me on the couch last night. “Oh my gosh, keep your voice down!” My face is burning, and I’m grateful for the unusually empty reception area. I whisper in a rush, “Besides, the odds of that happening are nonexistent since Oliver threatened me with financial ruin if I come within five feet of Anders.”
“I was talking about Micah.” Mercer’s knowing smile makes me want to whack her over the head with a pool noodle. When she props her feet on the desk again I smack them back to the floor.
“You know what I meant! There will be no canoodling with Micah or Anders or any number of the handsome men staying on the property right now, capiche?” I practically shriek.
“Glad to hear it,” Oliver’s robotic voice echoes from the end of the long corridor. He marches down the hall, somehow typing on his phone and not running into any furniture. Meanwhile, I’d like to dive under a sofa. A woman I don’t recognize is walking with him. She’s kind of gorgeous in that white blonde, fluorescent teeth, Hollywood way.
“Ugh, what does he need now?” my friend gripes under her breath, smoothing her shirt. She straightens some already-straight papers on the desk.
“Who’s that with him?” I whisper. My curiosity is holding me in place.
“Oh, that’s Frankie. Micah’s assistant,” Mercer says, tightening her high, blonde ponytail like she’s preparing for battle.
When they’re a few feet away, Frankie swipes the screen on her buzzing phone. “Good morning, Mr. Wats—” whoever cuts her off on the other end has plenty to say. “I-I know, Mr. Watson. I’m getting it for you as quickly as I can, but we’re fairly remote here, and—” Now the voice on the other end of the line is loud enough I can also make him out. It’s definitely Micah. He’s not happy. His tone is off-putting, but I bet he’s so tired from these long days of filming, and they have such an early start today. I can hardly believe I’m hearing his voice in real-time. “I’ll get it as soon as I can,” Frankie says, pulling the phone away from her ear to stare at it, then tossing it into her huge bag. Did he hang up on her?
Oliver rolls his robot eyes and makes his way toward us.
This is my cue to leave. I put a hand on Mercer’s shoulder and whisper, “You got this. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Don’tleavemewithhim!” Mercer grinds out rapidfire, without moving her lips.
I cuff her shoulder with my loose fist. “Let your hair down. Have fun for once.” I enjoy rubbing her own words in her face. What are best friends for? “Good luck!”