She lifts her head off of Anders’ shoulder, and despite my joking tone, her mini scowl matches her dad’s. “I guess so.”
Anders’ brow furrows at her response, but he’s silent. Maybe he isn’t okay with me being unavailable when he needs me? Well, he needs to learn to be okay with it. I had a whole life before he got here. No way am I allowing him to dictate how I spend my off hours. I don’t care if he’s used to having everything his way, or how sexy that dimple is. He can put that thing away. And now I’m scowling.
Then, Anders’ face relaxes and his frown disappears. He pastes on a smile, but there’s something different about it. It looks off. And it occurs to me—he’s acting. I would have never known it before this week, but this watered down smile isn’t close to the real deal. I appreciate the effort, but it’s too late. I’m still irked at him for being irked. We’re caught in an irk pickle.
“Sounds like a fun time, Eric,” Mercer says from her end of the table, sporting her standard conniving grin. I appreciate her attempt to lighten the mood that had started to turn sour. She reads me well.
“Yeah, it’s going to be sweet. I’ve always wanted to take Sunny out.”
He winks at me across the table, and I feel an inexplicable urge to dodge his flying wink. I don’t want this kind of attention from him. Eric has dated just about everyone who works at the resort who is single and has two X chromosomes. I’m feeling like I’m at the bottom of the dating barrel, which isn’t great. But he gave me a gift, so it’s awkward.
“I’m looking forward to it. Thanks, Eric—”
I’m cut off by a crack of thunder so loud it makes me gasp. Then, several things happen in slow motion: Hairy dives under the table, tipping it sideways over her enormous, furry body. Playing cards scatter and plates slide across the table. Worst of all, Anders’ cake and tall glass of milk spill all over his lap and Imogen. He bolts upright in the uproar, practically dumping Immy off his lap. Dishes clatter to the patio.
“Hairy!” Immy and Anders moan in unison.
The dog is curled into a giant, quivering donut under the table. Clearly she is not a fan of our spur-of-the-moment desert thunderstorms. Another crash of thunder echoes through the distant canyon and she whines like she can read my angry thoughts.
“Here. I have something you can change into, Immy.” My mother reaches out a hand to Imogen, who is drenched in whole milk. “Follow us. I’ll show you where you can get cleaned up,” she says with an apologetic look to Anders.
My mother takes them through the back door and I’m left with Clifford the Big Red Doofus shaking at my feet. What a mess.
“Hairy is freaking out. Let me put her inside, then we can clean up,” I tell my sisters. It’s hard not to slip into eldest sister mode in times of chaos. “Come on, Hairy.” I call her with a click of my tongue.
She ignores me. She’s a trembling ball of fur and anxiety, cowering under the table. “Hairy, come on. Let’s go.” Fat rain drops plop on the table and my hair. “Hairy,” I whine, tugging her pink collar. She won’t budge. I am Sisyphus and this mongrel is my boulder.
Rain is pelting all of us now. My sisters, plus Joe and Eric, scramble to gather the soggy cake dishes and ruined cards. The storm can wash away the milk. I have to get this dog—who is completely dry, thanks to the table—into the house before I’m drenched.
The downpour feels like someone opened a big, heavenly spigot to full blast. It’s pooling on the table top and in between my sandaled toes. “Hairy. Now,” I snap over the roar of the storm, in a tone usually reserved for exorcizing demons.
Finally, the dog bolts from under the table and into the back door, smacking the glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack the pane. I twist the knob and she barges past me into the house.
“Geez, Hairy!” I holler after her. She shoves under my mom’s long, rectangular dining table and curls back into her shaky donut. Poor scared, dumb dog. I shudder, turning back to the mess.
“It’s your birthday. We’ve got this,” Indie says, gesturing towards the house with her hands full of drooping paper plates. “Go dry off.”
I don’t need to be told twice. Shaking my head at Hairy, I march up the stairs, leaving a soggy trail on the carpet behind me. I’m eager for my gray sweatpants that have the name of my old college running down one leg in block letters. I know those holey things are here somewhere.
I barge into my room and jolt when I spot Anders standing in my closet. What in tarnation is he doing here?! His big arms are crossed and he’s grinning like he’s watching an old episode ofThe Officewith my dresses and blouses.
“Anders?”
He pivots toward me, smirking like I didn’t just catch him snooping in my childhood bedroom. “Well, well, well,” he says in his slow baritone that makes my breath hitch. A strobe of lightning and a simultaneous thunderclap make his words menacing.
“What?” I inch into the room. The man is like a black hole—constantly pulling me in, and the mystery of what will happen to me when I get inside is as terrifying as it is exciting. But I have to know what’s in there. I’m allowing myself to be drawn in, fully aware that this can only end in disaster.
He doesn’t respond, but when I finally reach him, he nods toward a gap in my hanging clothing. There, hanging on the wall between two dresses that I bought in high school, is my worst nightmare.
14. Anders’ Seven Minutes in Heaven
Ilove the blush that blooms on her cheeks when Sunny joins me in the closet. I know technically I’m the guilty party here. Sunny caught me skulking around in her closet, after all. But I can’t help it. Teasing her is as close to flirting as I’m legally allowed, and this discovery is a gold mine.
I just found a poster of Micah Watson plastered on the wall in Sunny’s closet.
It’s not a wholesome poster, either. It’s from the early days of our first series—one of those sweaty, bare-chested shots that we were compelled to pose for before either of us knew we had the power to say no. It’s all oiled-up muscles, low-slung jeans, and bedroom eyes that would make my brothers gang up on me. And they have ganged up on me for stuff like this.
The poster itself makes me uncomfortable. Coming face-to-pectorals with Micah in Sunny’s closet was a jump-scare, for sure. But it also brought back the feelings that surfaced out on the patio a few minutes ago when that goofball Eric showed up: Possessiveness, jealousy, and a dash of irritation. I know I’m not entitled to any of those feelings, so I’m stuffing them deep and covering them up witha heavy layer of flirtatious teasing. My reasons for coming into Sunny’s room were innocent, at least.
