“Thanks for that, by the way.” She’s taken over a lot of my work since I’ve been nannying Immy. We’re playing musical chairs at the resort right now. There’s too much to do and not enough of us to go around.
“It’s fine. Anyway, Oliver is like a freaking mosquito in my ear. He’s always looking for something or needs something and I’m like,dude, let me work.” She tosses her yoga mat into our coat closet, it knocks something down and she slams the door before whatever it was can fall out. “Ya know?”
I grin. “Hmm.”
“Shut up.”
“The lady doth protest too much—'' A throw pillow smashes into my face. I jump up to retaliate when my phone buzzes in my purse.
I hold up one hand to fend off my friend. “Oliver and Mercer Jones,” I sing-song, grabbing my bag from the floor. I dig for my phone, “Sounds good. Like your names belong together.” I swipe open my phone and see a text from Anders. A pillow ricochets off my head from Mercer’s direction, flopping onto the ashy fireplace grate.
ANDERS
Did you make it home okay, Sunflower?
I squeal in my throat, holding the phone to my chest. “It’s him,” I whisper with wide eyes.
“Oliver?” Mercer makes a face like I tracked dog doo in the house. “No way.”
“Gross. No.” I can’t stop smiling. “It’s Anders.”
I spin away from her to type out my response, as if I have anything to hide.
SUNNY
I made it. Thanks for checking in, boss. [winking emoji]
It’s not a flirtatious wink, for the record. It’s a business wink. I sigh. I’ll be reading and re-reading his texts for the next year. I think I’ll lie in my bed and do that right now, as a matter of fact.
“I’m headed to bed,” I mumble, staring at my phone. I’m floating toward my bedroom on a cloud of hormones and delusion when Mercer calls from the living room.
“Hey, Sunny.”
“Yeah?” My eyes are glued to my screen, distracted.
“You have a big ol’ Snack sticker on your butt.”
My week flies by in a blur of dance parties with Imogen, endless vacuuming of Hairy’s fur, and a constant stream of vaguely unprofessional text messages from the incorrigible Anders. He may have mentioned something about what he called my “squeezable jeans” at one point. And I may have an album on my phone dedicated solely to screenshots of our conversations.
On the surface, he is Immy’s dad and my boss, and I am just the nanny. He comes in the door at the end of the day and I give him an update on his daughter. We say goodbye. I get in my car. By the time I’ve buckled my seatbelt I have a message waiting. The first night, the message was two words: “Your eyes.” I hounded him for the rest of the night to explain himself. We texted until after midnight that first night. The next night, Anders needed to catch up on sleep and so did I. We only texted for a few hours.
The system is working well. According to Anders, there haven’t been any more distractions, lectures, or location hiccups. If the rest of the shoot goes like this, it will all be over before I’ve had time to really appreciate it. I’m making a conscious effort to slow down and enjoy my time with Immy and my text messages with Anders. Who knows what will happen when this shoot ends. This daydream has an expiration date and I am dreading that day.
That’s what is on my mind as I’m doing my hair for my date with Eric. I shoot a quick text to Anders while I wait for my curls to cool before I brush through them.
SUNNY
How is it already Saturday?
ANDERS
Right? Seems like I just got caught kissing you in your closet last night.
SUNNY
You can’t see it, but I’m blushing. That was so embarrassing.
ANDERS
