Page 9

I smoosh a blob of yellow paint onto my rock and swirl it until it’s a circle that I can turn into a big sun. I peek at Immy’s rock. There are gobs of yellow, blue, and pink, with smears of every color in between where the paints have combined. It almost looks like the watercolor sunset happening outside the window. We got back to the suite with our supplies with just enough time to paint before Immy will beg for bedtime. Despite all of Anders’ efforts she is still on Copenhagen Standard Time.

We got an oversized button-down shirt at the thrift store to use as a smock and a plastic tablecloth to keep the mess contained. Painting and the associated messes aren’t my thing, but there’s an easy out-and-back hike close to town that I think Immy will like. Hikers paint rocks with inspirational phrases or pictures and leave them all over the path. It’s called Aspiration Trail. It’s cute, and annoyingly Instagrammable. My social media feed is overrun with friends from high school and their kids on the hike, posing with their rocks. We’ll let our rocks dry overnight and tomorrow it will be our turn. This weekend will be emotionally tricky for me—turning another year older isn’t always fun—so I’m grateful for the distraction, even if the distraction is tricky in her own way .

“What are you working on, kiddo?” From the looks of it, it could be the sunset, an octopus, or Jupiter. I’m not about to guess wrong and hurt her feelings.

She bites her tongue while she works and her little eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s me at a Harry Styles concert. See? That’s lights.” She points at a yellow blob, then a pink blob. “And that’s me. I’m pretty much all done.”

“I love it. That looks just like you. You’re a big Harry Styles fan, huh?”

At my mention of her name, Hairy Styles the dog bumps my wrist from underneath with her wet snout. I prop my paintbrush on the paper plate I’m using as a palette, wipe my wrist on my jeans, and scratch the dog behind her warm, floppy ear. We’ve reached an unspoken agreement in the days I’ve been in her domain. I scratch her behind the ears and in exchange she doesn’t rip out my jugular with her enormous teeth. She leans all of her warm body weight into me whenever I give her attention.

“Harry Styles is pretty much the best ever, of all time.” She swirls her brush in the pink paint. “That’s what me and my dad sing. Did you know that my dad is a really good dancer, too? He sings and dances with me all the time. Harry Styles is our favorite to do.”

Oh, the amount of money I could make selling this information to tabloids if I were an immoral person. “I didn’t know your dad could dance and sing. I’d love to see that.” And so would the entire female population of the United States.

“He doesn’t sing that good, just so you know.” She bites her tongue and pauses. She adds a few details to her rock that require full concentration, then holds up her masterpiece. “All done! I put my dad on it, and you. But there wasn’t room left for Hairy. Besides, she can’t go to the concert.”

“Aww, why not?”

Her half-lidded, exasperated expression is a mirror image of Oliver’s. It’s almost a jump-scare. Anders may be her father, but the influence of the second man in her life is evident. “Because Hairy is a dog.” Her unspoken “duh” is implied.

After a few more minutes of perfecting our painted rocks my curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s your favorite Harry Styles song to sing with your dad?” I nudge Hairy away with my foot before she demands ear scratches again. The sun on my rock is almost finished.

“I’ll show you! And I can show you our dance, too.” She drops her rock onto her paper plate and skips away. Less than a minute later a fast-paced, full-volume pop song blasts from her tablet, filling the airy kitchen. She’s working up a sweat, whirling and pumping her arms to the beat. She’s a decent little dancer. I wonder offhandedly if someone taught her to dance like this, or if it’s second nature when you’re the daughter of an entertainer.

“You’re a good dancer, Imogen. Do you take classes?”

Her face glows under my praise and she talks through her intricate, adorable dance moves. “I wish I could take classes, but my dad says I can’t ‘cause we’re gone too much. So we just dance together. That’s how I got this good.” She does an adorably awkward leap that doesn’t exactly confirm her words.

Oh, to have the confidence of the five-year-old daughter of a celebrity. “You are so good. I love this song.”

“Get up! I’ll teach you the dance.” She’s breathing a little heavier as she restarts the music. “Come on!” Her tiny, soft hand pulls me off my chair.

I’m not much of a dancer, unless you count country line dancing. Mercer and I have done that a few times at a place in town. I can dance when I’m repeating the same ten moves in a group of people who are also repeating the same ten moves in orderly lines. There’s minimal improvisation, and a generous margin for error. Line dancing fits inside my comfort zone.

What Immy is doing is so far outside my comfort zone it’s in Russia, but I mimic her anyway. She won’t judge me, and I’m ninety percent sure Hairy won’t. I catch my reflection in the huge glass windows that line the back wall of the suite. Yikes . I’m judging myself right now. But I’m still counting this as my cardio for the day, since my run didn’t happen this morning.

Immy shows me all of the moves in her dance, and I feel like I’m finally getting them down when a booming baritone voice shouts over the music.

“You got it, Sunflower!” He dances up next to me and it is immediately clear that Immy’s skills are genetic. Oh wow, he can dance.

I drop my arms at my side and still my awkwardly gyrating hips. The embarrassment that I’ve been caught dancing poorly is entirely forgotten. “Who told you?”

He’s saved from my question when Immy throws her arms around his legs in her typical response to his return home. “Dad!” she squeals up at him like she didn’t see him eleven hours ago. Hairy barks. He grins down at her and turns his grin on me.

“Who told me what?” He asks with a phony one-dimpled smile. He is full of baloney. This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to accuse him of being a bad actor.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Who told you my name?” Very few people know that Sunny is short for Sunflower. My mother, bless her heart, is an earth-lover and her children didn’t escape her love of flora unscathed. My sisters are Marigold, Willow, and Sage. Then there’s my brother, the poor guy. He got the worst of it. I can’t even say his middle name without blushing. In my mother’s defense, when my brother was born the word didn’t have the connotation it has now. It’s become a top secret family joke.

“I met Joe today.”

“Reeeeeally?” I draw the word out. That two-timing, traitorous brother of mine! All familial loyalty has left my being. “That’s brave of him, given his middle name is—” and I repeat my brother’s name, enunciating all three syllables to drive home the sheer awfulness of it. No surprise, I blush.

Anders’ mouth drops open and his startled laugh rings through the suite. “Oh, that’s awful. I can’t wait to run into him again.”

“Aub-ur… Ugh. What’s that word?” Even Immy can’t spit it out.

Luckily, her dad jumps in to change the subject. “What else are you girls up to tonight? What’s all this?” He gestures to the rocks and our paint mess on the table.

“Sorry, we’ll get that cleaned up. Just a little art project.” I drop our brushes into our cup of water while Immy crumples up our paper towels. I hate making a mess and I would’ve had this taken care of long before he got home, but he’s home early. Again. I hate that I can’t predict when he’ll walk in the door. I seem to have a knack for incriminating myself when he comes home unexpectedly. “Will you put the paper towels in the trash, kiddo?”

While I rinse brushes, Immy clears the trash and explains the hike we’re doing in the morning. While her chatter fills the room, Anders pulls one of his containers of food from the fridge and starts eating like he’s never going to see food again. He peels the "Snack" sticker off the container and tosses it on the counter before putting the used dish in the sink. I quietly clean up our mess and pop his container in the dishwasher, wiping my hands on the kitchen towel when I’m done.

Immy and her dad have a natural back-and-forth that I’m hesitant to interrupt, but it’s time for me to leave. I slide my feet into my sandals and sling my purse over my shoulder. “I’m going to head out.” I give him a smile, but the exhaustion is real. I need my bed and it’s barely seven p.m. Taking care of a child is a full-body workout. I turn to Immy, “I’ll be here bright and early for our hike, okay? Get lots of sleep!”

She races over and throws her arms around my knees, “Five more minutes! I have to finish showing you the dance.”

“Aw, I have to go, hon.” I shoot a “save me” look to her dad, but so far he’s zero-for-seventy-two at doing what I expect. When he blinks his impossibly blue eyes at me I know I’m not going to see my pillow any time soon.

“You can’t go. I picked another absolute classic Anders Beck film for you to dissect. We were supposed to watch it last night, but you made us go out for burgers.” He shrugs like his hands are tied. “Unless you’re too tired?”

“You’re the one who made us go out for burgers, for the record.” I kick off my sandals and pad into the living area. “And I’ve never met a movie star so obsessed with watching his own movies.”

He mimics a stab to the chest while he follows me. "I'm doing this for you. You need to develop your cinematic palate. Your favorite Anders Beck movie is a blight on the catalog.” He drops onto the couch, remote in hand.

I have a decision to make. I can sit next to him on the overstuffed white couch within sniffing distance of his cologne, or I can sit in the sturdy armchair and crank my neck for two hours to see the screen. It seems like an obvious choice. Unfortunately, Immy makes the decision for me when she takes the seat next to her dad. Hairy takes the cushion on her other side, drooping her huge head across the armrest. I curl into the armchair, tucking my feet under me with a sigh. This is for the best. I don’t need Oliver running me through with his lightsaber tonight.

“You won’t be comfortable watching from there. Hairy, get down.” Anders’ stern voice makes tiny bumps pop up all over my arms. Hairy groans as she lowers her massive body onto the ground, giving Anders—and me—the dog version of side-eye the whole way.

Great, now I’m on the beast’s poop list.

“Get over here, Sunny,” Anders commands, and something about the way he says my nickname makes those bumps pop up all over again. “Second best seat in the house.”

I lower myself onto the cushion next to Imogen and cross my legs under me. “What’s the best seat? ”

“The one next to me.” His cocky grin makes his dang dimple pop. I would roll my eyes if I wasn’t so flustered.

Imogen snuggles into his side, proving his point. He curls his big arm around her, leaving my shoulder four inches from his right hand. If my calculations are correct, if I shift to the left by half an inch every fifteen minutes, his hand will touch my shoulder by the time the credits roll. It’s going to require all of my concentration to stop myself from allowing that to happen.

Because I’m only interested in Micah , I remind myself.

No, because you’re Cold Turkey Sunny , the logical side of my brain interjects.

Party pooper , a voice that sounds eerily like Anders whispers in the back of my mind.

I am officially going crazy.

Luckily, Anders has chosen a movie I’ve seen multiple times so I won’t have to pay close attention. I could recite the dialog from memory. It’s a sci-fi story about a guy who receives a signal from deep space and follows it, ultimately saving humanity. It’s layered with metaphors and has a sweet love story, obviously. One does not cast Anders Beck in a film without a love story unless one wants to deal with hordes of disappointed female viewers.

Five minutes into the movie, Imogen is snoring, her lanky body dangling across Anders and more than her portion of the couch. Her head is twisted at an angle on Anders’ arm and her mouth is wide open. She still hasn’t adjusted to this time zone. If I didn’t know that, I’d be checking for a carbon monoxide leak. I’ve never seen a person go out so fast. Her white-blonde curls have flopped over Anders’ arm and onto mine. I want to reach over and comb her hair out of her face. I want to straighten her out so she doesn’t get a kink in her neck. I remind myself for the two hundredth time today that she isn’t mine. She isn’t yours, I think dejectedly. Her dad is here. I’m off duty.

You don’t even want kids, remember? I scold myself. I’ve been talking myself into this lie for years now, but the part of me that aches to nurture and raise a child hasn’t gotten the message that I’m infertile. And the connection I feel to Imogen is deepening in a dangerous way. It’s going to hurt when she leaves. How am I supposed to spend my days with her without getting attached? It feels impossible.

Speaking of. I want to sneak a look at Anders, but at this angle it is difficult to check him out subtly. He’s blurry in my periphery—all tan arms and dark stubble—and I can’t see his face. He’s sort of like a dream man. I pretend to get more comfortable, angling myself against the couch so I can get a better look at him. When my eyes dart his way, his blue eyes are already on me and he’s grinning.

“Comfortable?” Why does every word out of his mouth sound like a tease? When I nod he adds, “I’m gonna to put Immy to bed.”

“Want me to do it?” I offer.

“No, I enjoy taking care of her.” I sigh inwardly at his sweet words—he loves that girl so much—then he adds, “Will you pause it for me, though?” He hands me the remote and our fingers brush and linger just long enough to make me silly.

“Haven’t you already seen this? Aren’t you in this?” I laugh, buzzing from the contact high of Anders’ touch. This man has a way of grounding me in the present and making me put off thinking about the future. This isn’t good.

He stands and hoists his daughter into his capable arms, a move that he’s obviously done more than once. “Yeah, but I haven’t watched it with you, and that’s kinda the point.”

“Okay.” I pause the movie, and the screen freezes on an unflattering shot of Anders—mouth hanging open, eyes wide, with his long hair standing upright in the wind. I shoot out a laugh that makes his gaze swing to the television.

“Why you gotta do me like that, Sunflower?” he calls over his shoulder.

My face burns at the name, but while Anders puts Imogen to bed, I scan the man on the screen. What I thought about Anders—the pictures the tabloids paint—doesn’t match what I’m seeing. I hear him whisper to his daughter and I know that this is who he really is. No one can fake being a loving father that well. If he’s a party animal, he’s doing a great job of hiding it.

The version of Anders on the TV screen is softer around the edges and boyish. Immature. I can admit that he has always been handsome, but he’s getting better with age. The man walking back into the room is all angular lines and muscles. Creases form around his eyes when he smiles at me. Is this really happening? Am I having another movie night with Anders Beck? I will never get used to this. And I don’t think I’ll ever recover when this gig ends. Reality will be such a letdown.

He plops onto the center couch cushion, well within my personal space bubble, and way closer than a guy watching a movie with his daughter’s nanny should. He takes up a lot of room, because everything about Anders is big. His personality fills a room when he enters it, his deep voice booms like a jet doing a flyby, but he’s also just physically large. He’s well above six feet tall, with thick arms, and legs like tree trunks.

I’m a tall girl. I can reach high shelves and wear big shoes. I don’t often feel petite, but sitting next to Anders I feel practically dainty.

He snatches the controller from me. “That’s enough of that,” he says to the carnival mirror version of himself on screen, restarting the movie.

I’m thoroughly distracted when his hand rests on his thigh, clutching the remote. Why watch him on screen when I can ogle live-action Anders right here? Because even his hand is entertaining. It’s strong and tan, with these strangely attractive veins popping out that I want to trace with my fingers. He’s tapping his thumb against his leg like he’s antsy. After a few minutes of that, he drops the remote and flexes his hand and I am breathless. I am without breath. This is an outstanding performance. Five stars. Bravo !

But Anders is still fidgeting. His hand flops between us and he drums his fingers on the cushion. When his knee starts bouncing, I cover it with my hand to hold him still. He sucks in a breath.

“What is up with you?” I ask.

“What?”

“You. You’re like one of those wind-up toys with the spring coiled tight. Do I need to put you on the floor so you can spin in circles until you bang into a wall or something?” I scold, smiling at the mental image.

He laughs. “Yeah. I’d love to see you try.” He settles deeper into the couch, slinging his arm behind me. It’s an unspoken physical challenge.

He’s a big, solid guy who can undoubtedly hold his own. What he doesn’t know is I have a big, solid older brother, so I had to learn to fight dirty. Tickling is the old standby, but if Anders isn’t ticklish it won’t work and he’ll be prepared for my next offensive. I’ll lose the element of surprise, which is critical when going up against a big, solid guy. I hesitate to do what needs to be done, but I must. I’ve never been someone who can ignore a challenge from an arrogant man.

While Anders’ eyes are trained on the screen—watching himself, for the record—I slide my hand up to my mouth and lick my fingertip, leaving it nice and slobbery. Facing forward, I monitor Anders in the corner of my eye. I move my hand slowly, cautiously toward his ear like I’m docking a spacecraft on the International Space Station. I’m getting away with it. This is happening. Three… two…

Right as my juicy finger is about to make contact with Anders’ ear, his hand shoots to my wrist, holding it in place. He wraps my hand inside his big fist, drying the offending finger on the leg of his jeans. “A valiant effort.” He holds my palm in place against his thigh. “But were you really about to give me a wet willy? How old are you? ”

“Twenty—” I start with a gusty exhale. I can’t think. My hand is pressed against Anders’ leg, with his warm fingers on top of mine. What was I saying? Oh yeah. “Six. I’m twenty-six. My birthday is this weekend. I’ll be twenty-seven.” Yes. Good math, Sunny , I compliment myself. “But you’re a big guy. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” My words are way too breathy.

The vein that runs across his tan wrist is calling to me: Just one tiny touch. What would it hurt? And before I realize what I’m doing, I drag the pad of my index finger down the length of the vein. Anders sucks in a breath and uses his free hand to hold mine in place. Now both of my hands are layered between his and I’m trapped—the world’s most willing prisoner.