I hack into the cake with more force than necessary. “Yeah?”
“Take a deep breath.”
“Why?” I slap the cake onto a paper plate, where it lands with a heavy thump. “Fork. I need a fork, and probably a napkin. Where are the napkins?”
“You need to calm down. He’s just a normal guy who happens to have an unusual job.” Her serene voice has an instant effect on me. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, only instead of salivating at the sound of a bell, my heart rate drops at the sound of my mother’s voice. I’m so lucky I have her.
I take a deep breath. She’s right. He’s just a normal guy. Why am I acting like this?
You know why.
“I thinkI like him, Mom.” There is nothing filtering my thoughts before they leave my mouth tonight, which is going to be problematic.
“I’m sure you do.” She tosses her braids over her shoulders and pulls a glass down from the cupboard, filling it with milk. “One phone call with the man and I’m half in love with him myself,” she adds with a laugh.
“But it’s more than that. I mean, yeah he’s charming. He’s rich. Handsome” — my mother’s eyes widen and she makes a sound like a deflating balloon; even she isn’t immune to his appeal — “But I’m drawn to who he is as a person. He’s fun. Spontaneous. Thoughtful. He’s not what I thought he’d be.” I swipe a big fingerful of fudge frosting from the edge of the cake platter and lick it off. Chocolate will help.
“And you’re his daughter’s nanny.”
“Thanks, Mom.” She has never been one to mince words, which has its pros and cons. I usually appreciate her frankness, and I needed that reminder tonight, as much as I don’t want it. “I know nothing can happen, or will happen. I think that’s why I’m so nervous. I have all of these thoughts and feelings that have nowhere to go.”
She drags her finger through the chocolate frosting on the cake plate, joining me. “Then you need to talk about them, because if you don’t they’ll come out eventually. You’re like a shaken can of soda. It’s got to go somewhere. You just need to prepare for it. Choose the where and when.”
“Over the sink?” That’s where I would open a shaken can of soda.
“Yeah. Who’s your ‘over the sink’ person you can share these feelings with so they don’t explode all over Anders Beck?”
“I think we’re pushing this metaphor now.” I say, feeling squirmy.
“You know what I mean.”
I think for a second. “It’s you. Mercer. Indie. Joe.”
She smiles. “See? You have plenty of people you can share with. Be smart with Anders. As much as I love to tease you about breaking the rules—and your need forwaffles—no one can afford for this situation to go sideways.” She’s right. A lot of things hinge on this shoot going well. She smacks my bottom. “Now take that handsome man some birthday cake.” She hands me the glass of milk with a plastic fork. This is all so simple compared to the treatment he must be accustomed to, but I’ve never heard anyone complain about Sarah Pratt’s fudge birthday cake.
I stab the fork into the cake like it’s a flag on the moon and hold my head high. I’ve got this.
When we step back onto the patio, there’s a new face at the table. Eric has taken my seat next to Anders and he’s telling a story about a hike he did with Lauren Holly when she was a guest at our resort a few years ago. I guess he thinks since Lauren Holly and Anders are in the same line of work, they’d know each other?
I slide the plate onto the table in front of Anders, placing the glass of milk off to the side. He pops his dimple at the sight of the chocolate cake. It’s a far cry from mung beans and tofu. Pulling a spare chair up the table, I wedge myself next to Indie, who gives me a knowing smirk. She’s been on the receiving end of Eric’s stories more than once.
“Sunny!” Eric rounds the table and throws his toned arms around me. He’s always been a huggy guy. “Happy birthday, gorgeous! I got something for you.”
He pulls an envelope out of his back pocket and passes it to me. It’s bent and warm from being sat on.
“Thanks, Eric! You didn’t have to get me anything.” He really didn’t. We’re friends, but we’re not birthday gift friends. We’re certainly not butt-warmed-envelope friends. My face burns under the gaze of the people around the table—well, one person in particular. When I peek at him over the envelope, he’s not smiling like I expect. His brow is furrowed in a way I’ve only seen in movies.
I question him with my eyes and he pastes a phony half smile onto his mouth, taking a large bite of chocolate cake. Sliding my finger under the flap to open the envelope, I unfold a sheet of paper. It's a printed screenshot for the purchase of two concert tickets. “Fleetwood Mac tribute band?”
“At Tuacahn!” Eric is smiling so big, I swear his tongue is going to loll out the side of his mouth like a golden retriever’s. “It’s going to be so sick!”
“Thank you?” That sounded bad. It’s an incredible gift. I heard about this concert and wanted to go—I'm a Fleetwood Mac girl, thanks to my mom's influence—but I never got tickets because… life. And I love going to concerts at this amphitheater, nestled deep in a sheer sandstone canyon. I backpedal. “Thank you so much, Eric. This is really thoughtful.” But this feels like too much, and it’s two tickets. Is he coming with me? Is this a date? Can I give the second ticket to Mercer? Why did Eric put me in this position? I need more information.
Eric answers my nervous internal questioning when he says, “We can leave early and grab dinner. It’s Saturday night. I checked the filming schedule—you should be off the hook with babysitting early that day, right?”
My eyes dart to Imogen and Anders. His frown is back and aimed directly at Eric. I don’t want Anders or his daughter to feel like a burden. I’ve become fond of my days with Immy, and the side perk of hanging out in Anders’ suite, within sniffing distance of his cologne? That’s not bad either. Being bamboozled into a date under the guise of it being a birthday gift? Definitely not my thing.
“I’ll have to check with my boss.” I turn to face Imogen. “Hey boss, are you okay hanging out with your dad so I can go on a date with Eric on Saturday?”
