"Yes, An—Mr. Beck." I shake off the trance I'm in from the sound of Micah’s husky voice that, frustratingly, I still can’t make out. This is going to be a deliciously long and difficult couple of months. "My mother chose the name. Her mother was Navajo and it’s a tribute to her. It means beautiful."
I've repeated this detail to many guests over the years, and the old habit has a calming effect on my heart. It also serves as the reminder I need to do my job well and keep things professional. I love this resort. It is my home and our family legacy. I’ve been running these halls since I was old enough to run. I stole snacks from the kitchen and swam in the pool until I was old enough to get my first job here folding laundry. Hundreds of people have come here and found rest and rejuvenation, and I take pride in that. I love this place.
"Fitting," he says with a wink that temporarily fries my brain.
So much for my calm heart. Fetch my smelling salts, I feel a swoon coming on.
Wait, what?No, no, no. This is Anders Beck—the buffoon, the womanizer, the rapscallion. He isn’t supposed to have this effect on me. He doesn’t. Geesh, the man has a powerful wink.
Mercer is standing behind the men, watching the interaction with wide eyes. She mouths, “Oh. My. Gosh!” and pantomimes what I think is a large, sexy man with burly muscles, winking. Her little game of charades is vaguely crude and definitely not appropriate for work.
I feel myself blush and shake my head at her.You’re going off of all celebrity crushes cold turkey, Sunny, I remind myself. In fact, that should be my nickname: Cold Turkey Sunny. I can’t let the lethal charisma that radiates from this man affect me. It won’t, because I’m Cold Turkey Sunny. She is a serious businesswoman. Nothing affects her.
More groups arrive and my other employees greet them and start the check-in process. Chatter fills the lobby and I silently monitor Micah Watson and his small entourage bowing to his every need. Crowds part around him and all eyes are fixed on him. The man is modern American royalty. It’s just the reminder I need of who I am and what my role is today.
Miraculously, I navigate the check-in process with the men in front of me efficiently. It’s streamlined, since most things were taken care of by the production company weeks ago. Except…
“It looks like we’re missing some of your party? Anders, will your daughter and nanny be joining you?” We have a woman named Nan and Anders’ five-year-old daughter listed on our paperwork.
Oliver answers for Anders, his tone robotic, “Imogen and Nanny Nan are on their way, just later than we thought. They're accompanied by Mr. Beck's personal protection, as you'll recall from my email.”
I refuse to smile at the fact that the nanny’s name is Nan. I am a statue. I am the picture of poise and maturity. Poise and maturity, dang it.
Nanny Nan, my brain betrays me.NANNY NAN.
I feel a smile creeping onto my lips and I employ every muscle in the bottom half of my face to stop it.Nanny Nan, my brain taunts a third time. It’s not even funny, but because I’m not allowed to laugh—and I’ve just downed a Coke and a bunch of sugar—I laugh.
I wish I could say it was a charming, demure giggle. Nope. Because I fought so hard to contain it, the laugh bursts out of my nose in the form of a snort that echoes through the corridor like a gunshot. Several heads whip my direction, including the well-coiffed head of Micah Watson. He barely turns my way with a perturbed glare, and I die a little inside. I bet he’s so tired from traveling all day.
Even Mercer, the queen of the snort laugh, is wide-eyed. Not once in our eighteen year friendship, or in my twenty-six years of life, have I made a sound like that.
Here lies Sunny Pratt, who died of humiliation after snort-laughing in front of People’s Sexiest Man Alive.
But then Anders’ face brightens with a smile that makes my heart stop. His crystal blue eyes look straight into mine, like I’m his partner in crime. “Right? I laugh every time he calls her Nanny Nan. I told you it’s funny.” He shoves Oliver’s shoulder, “Just call her Nan.”
Oliver releases a heavy breath. “She is the nanny. Just maintaining a professional boundary.” Then he mutters under his breath, “One of us should.”
Suddenly I’m very interested in this Nan person and her relationship with Anders Beck. I imagine him coming home to her after a long day of filming and settling onto the couch to watch a movie with her and Imogen. Imogen falls asleep and Anders makes an excuse to put his arm around Nan. They cuddle. She plays with his hair.
Ugh. Oliver is right. Anders needs to learn boundaries. And Nan needs to keep her grubby paws out of Anders’ hair.
Wait. Why do I care if this woman throws herself at this guy? If she’s willing to be taken advantage of by an obvious womanizer, that’s on her.And you’re in love with Micah, so none of that matters. Except you’re not even in love with him for the next few months. You are abstaining. Cold Turkey Sunny, remember?
My horrible daydream-turned-lecture is interrupted by Oliver, “Nanny Nan will arrive in a few hours with Imogen. I’ll give her instructions on how to find their room.”
I can’t help but match Oliver’s task-oriented energy, because honestly, when my senses aren’t being assaulted by the presence of multiple A-list celebrities, I am a task-oriented person. The real me is in here somewhere, hiding behind the bumbling teenager I’m impersonating. This is me pulling it together.
“Perfect.” I smooth my skirt—mostly because my palms have gotten sweaty—and my mind is blown when I catch Anders’ clocking the movement. My hands freeze on my legs, “Mercer will give you a short tour of the property and show you to your rooms. Meanwhile, Eric will handle your luggage.”Is Anders still looking at my hands on my legs? Did I get something on my skirt?“I hope you enjoy your time here.”
“I think we will,” Anders says with another one of his killer winks.
I realize a few things at this moment: One, Anders Beck knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s a terrible flirt, and it means absolutely nothing. He’s a natural born charmer, which I should’ve seen coming. A guy doesn’t become the king of the red carpet with thepersonality of a wet sock. And two: If having Micah Watson on the premises doesn’t kill me, this man will.
I paste on a phony smile, pretending to be unaffected by this tidal wave of charisma. “Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Jones.” And with barely a nod toward Anders Beck I tack on, “Mr. Beck,” like an afterthought.
Oliver appraises me with kind eyes after this interaction, and I notice that the Sith Lord isn’t bad looking when he isn’t scowling. I think I’ve won his approval. “Thank you, Sunny.” He spins around, “Which one of you is Mercer?”
2. Anders Looks but Doesn’t Touch
