Mercer and a few of my employees are tittering as I dig through the front desk drawers in search of a quick snack. Tic Tacs? Blech. I rummage deeper, past some mystery cords and the rubber band ball. Dusty granola bar? Pass.
I need to organize these drawers. This is ridiculous. I lean down to open the bottom drawer and find Mercer’s stash of Red Vines, and just in time. My belly is like an agitating washing machine preparing for the spin cycle. I stuff a piece of licorice in my mouth, intending to chew and swallow the entire thing before I sit up and resume my post like the professional I am. While I chew, I arrange the contents of the drawer so that it’s less chaotic.
As I sort paperclips according to size, I stuff another rope of licorice in my mouth sideways. Geez, this is delicious. Why don’t I eat candy more often? It’s doing something for my stress level, but this drawer is utterly absurd. Why is there a single black sock in here? A throat clears and I realize there’s a person standing in front of my desk. I startle, slam the drawer shut, and straighten.
And Anders Beck is standing in front of me.
Holy crap, Anders Beck is smiling at me.
Unfortunately, I still have a Red Vine hanging out the corners of my mouth like the tusks of a walrus.
I yank at the licorice and throw it under the desk where it lands on the tile with a thunk.
Why? Why, why, why am I the way that I am?I silently berate myself. I rarely eat candy, and the one time I’m stuffing it into my face like a raccoon in a trash can, a major Hollywood heartthrob catches me. I guess I should be grateful. At least it wasn't Micah Watson who caught me in walrus mode.
It's just Anders Beck, and he is grinning straight at me. The force of his megawatt smile almost knocks me on my behind. I’ve always conceded that he’s a handsome man, but in person he’s surprisingly, painfully perfect. His dark blonde hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, the waves brushing his collar. I'm learning just now that even the most detestable of celebrities is beautiful in real life.
Strong, square, perfectly stubbled jaw? Check.
Ice-blue eyes? Obviously.
Single dimple on his right cheek? Swoon.
Drool-worthy muscles?Hot dang.
Then, in the corner of my eye I spot a profile I’d recognize anywhere.
Micah Watson.
Micah Watson is in the building. I might faint.
“I’m going to faint,” I mumble, making the man in front of me chuckle.
Micah Watson’s big arms—his best feature, according to the brackets I made when I was sixteen—are folded across his chest as he strides past my desk without even a glance my way. I can’t stop the smile that overtakes my face because the man I’ve been daydreaming about since I was fourteen years old is standing three feet away from me. Some part of my brain registers surprise that he came into the building for this part of the process. I figured I’d be dealing with his people, or his people’s people. Not that I’m complaining, becauselook at him.
To protect my sanity, I was counting on seeing less of Micah. We would deal with his assistant, his manager, or whoever, and he would stay far away from me, closed off safely in his suite. And yet he’s right there, scratching the back of his head and flexing his indecently exposed bicep in front of God and everyone. I fan my face. Is our air conditioner broken?
Someone’s throat clears and my eyes dart to Anders, whose amused smile never seems to leave his mouth. That’s when I realizeI’m ogling, and more than one pair of eyes is fixed on me. Because Anders isn’t alone. There’s a man to his right with black hair and black, thick-framed glasses hiding a pair of dark eyes. He’s got strong Darth Vader vibes, and his expression says he is not amused.
“Checking in,” are his only words. I swear I can hear heavy, modulating breathing through some kind of mechanical apparatus.
I better take care of him before he Force-chokes me.
“Oliver Jones,” he adds, like it should have been obvious and I am a moron.
Ah. Anders’ manager. We’ve spoken on the phone multiple times and we’ve been on a first-name email basis. I didn’t picture him being so stuffy. And Sith-like. Well, two can play at that game. I’ve been training for this my whole life.
I stuff my infatuation with Micah deep, deep in my heart. I smash it into a box, lock the box, and incinerate the key. He’s just another guest. I can hyperventilate about all of this in a few months, when filming wraps and they leave. I’ve got this.
Then I hear Micah's deep voice echoing through the foyer. I can’t make out what he’s saying through the chatter around me. Annoying. But oh, the sound of it.
I haven't got this.
Yes you do, Sunny. Pull yourself together.
I smooth my skirt, nod, and smile. “Yes, of course. Welcome to Nizhóní, Mr. Jones.” I use the same tone I use with all of the difficult-to-please guests who have come and gone over the years. I can do this. See how blasé and professional I am?
"That's how you say that word? Nizhóní?" Anders' gruff voice is so deep and low I feel it in my bones.
