I can’t respond in kind, so I pull her in, wrapping my arms around her. I squeeze, “Let’s play nice. Your elbows are like little swords.” She melts against my chest, and my breath catches. She wasn’t supposed to give in so easily.
“You’re the one that’s not playing nice.” Her voice is weak, and I wonder if I’m squeezing too tight.
I don’t want to loosen my grip, but I force myself. What is she talking about? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman with her, despite the things I want to do. The irony is, I’ve finally found a woman I want to touch because of reasons other than how she looks, and I’m not allowing myself to do it. I don’t know myself anymore—and maybe that’s a good thing.
“I’m being nice.” I tighten my arms again. Maybe I’m a lost cause. “I just don’t trust your elbows.”
She squirms like she’s trying to get away, but if anything she’s only moving closer. I’m not stopping her. I doubt Indiana Jones himself could summon the will to stop her. I can smell her hair, and it’s far more enjoyable than the skunk situation she had going on a few days ago. She smells sweet, like fruity candy—sort of like Skittles, which happen to be my favorite.
I take a deep breath in through my nose. “You smell like yellow Skittles,” I mumble with a sigh.
Her laughter vibrates against my chest. “Yellow Skittles, specifically? Is that a good thing?”
I sniff her shiny, dark hair like I’m on a fact-finding mission. “It’s… torment.”
I feel the warmth of her exhale. “That doesn’t—”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, effectively dousing whatever was starting between us. Sunny retreats to her side of the couch, her eyes fixed on the movie like there will be a quiz later.
“Sorry.” I pull the phone from my pocket, checking the screen. Oliver. I swear the guy has a radar for fun, and he must find and destroy all signs of it. I swipe to accept the call. “Hey, Ollie.”
“Hey, man.” He sounds more peeved than usual. “We have some changes tomorrow.” Then he goes on for a solid five minutes about a location issue, which started a domino effect of chaos. Shooting changes. Costume and makeup issues. Rearranged schedule. It’s a pain in the butt, but not unusual. It means we’re starting way too early tomorrow, and I feel a tinge of guilt for keeping Sunny out so late. It also means I’ll be free early on Sunday, which opens up my schedule for things like a birthday party and a home cooked meal.Don’t mind if I do.
Oliver’s voice is buzzing in my ear like a mosquito, “...which means that you have less than zero time for your usual bull—”
“Ollie, I get it. I’m focused. Lay off.” I say this even as Sunny’s feet tuck almost under my leg on the cushion. She’s using the arm rest as a pillow, her brown hair cascading over the side of the couch in a way that can only be described as extremely distracting. With all of that hair out of the way, her slender neck is ready and waiting. I think I can see her soft pulse under the velvety skin below her jaw.
He snorts in my ear, making me jump. “I’ve seen Nanny Sunny. And I know you. You can’t help yourself around beautiful women, and now you have one under your roof. Easy access. You’re going to need hourly reminders from me.” I scramble to lower the volume on my phone, pressing the tiny button no less than forty times. I hope she didn’t hear that.
“Ollie, it’s been years. Lay off.” I need to redirect him, because the best way to get Oliver off my back is to talk about work. It comforts him. The guy loves work. He should marry it. “I have a question about tomorrow.”
I regret the decision when ten more minutes pass and Oliver is droning about our schedule, then ideas to make our day more efficient, all peppered with unsolicited input on my performance.They’re good thoughts. But I still want to cuddle with the nanny. I fake a yawn in Oliver’s ear.
He groans. “How were you nominated for an Academy Award?”
“Because I have a great manager.”
“That’s right. Now get some sleep, dingus.” He hangs up on me.
I drop back against the cushions, tossing my phone to the side with a huff. I remember too late that Sunny had stretched out beside me while Oliver was yapping. My phone lands screen down, squarely on her chest—and not on the bony, ribcage part of her torso. It’s the soft, curvy part that I am absolutely not thinking about. When she doesn’t yell at me, bat the phone away, or even twitch, I realize she is out like a light. Her full lips are parted and I think I spot a little drool starting.
This woman is going to kill me.
What a conundrum. I should wake her up so she can go home, but she looks so peaceful. Her hands are tucked under her cheek in the praying position. She’s too innocent for a guy like me. The little devil on my shoulder tells me to let her sleep because she’s too tired to drive, and she’ll have to be back here in seven hours anyway. Really, the kind thing to do is let her get the rest she needs. It’s decided, then.
I snag a blanket off the uncomfortable arm chair and tuck it around her, starting at her feet, and begging the universe to keep her asleep. She doesn’t budge. This girl is a deep sleeper. When I get to her shoulders and see my phone on her chest, I freeze. There’s a chance I can hook the black case with my pinky finger and pull it off of her like I’m fishing. There’s also a solid chance that if I try that, she’ll wake up with my hand grazing her boob.
I guess my phone is hers now.
Turning off the lights and the TV, I force myself into my bedroom. I want to stay with Sunny. She is exactly what her name implies—straight sunshine—and I’m like a wilted houseplant that’sbeen living in a dark room. Everything inside me wants to pivot toward her and drink her in. Instead, I faceplant on my bed and groan into the pillow.Get your crap together, Indiana Jones.
11. Sunny is in Trouble
My phone vibrates against my chest and my groggy brain makes me slap it away. It buzzes and buzzes, but I need a few more minutes to sleep. That’s it. Just five minutes. The phone’s muffled humming resumes from the carpet next to my bed. Someone is calling me now. What kind of sadistic person makes a phone call in this day and age? And before sunrise? That’s what texting is for. It must be Joe. He’s the only person I know who’s awake at this hour.
Wait—a detail registers in my foggy brain—there’s no carpet next to my bed.
My eyes blink open and last night rushes back to my mind like I'm remembering the best kind of dream. Anders and I “watched a movie” together. We sort of held hands. He took a long phone call. Then I must have fallen asleep. I feel like I swallowed a whole packet of Pop Rocks. My stomach is in my throat.I slept on Anders Beck’s couch.
