Ick.
Then, he snarls something about getting rid of the distractions on set so he can work.
I want to get out of here, but I don’t want to draw even more attention. I wish I could blend into the background like a chameleon and crawl away. From where I’m sitting, the scene was going well.Or so I thought. I didn’t think Immy and I could have possibly been distracting. But then the three of the men swing around and look me right in the water-logged, mascara-dripping face. I hold my breath.
Anders says something low and sharp to Micah. Micah says something to the director, who nods. Anders looks like he’s ready to flip a table when he marches toward us. Uh-oh.
“You’re doing really good, Dad!” Immy cheers him on, oblivious.
“Thanks, kiddo.” His fire-and-ice eyes find mine. “This is uncomfortable…” he trails off.
“You need us to leave?” It’s a guess, but I hope I’m wrong.
Relief washes over his face when he nods. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s—”
“No, it’s totally fine. I’m sorry we messed things up again. I need to get dinner for Immy, anyway. Plus, I need to shower. We don’t want to be in the way. Let’s go, Im. How about some nuggets for dinner? Get your stuff.” She doesn’t have any stuff. I silence my motormouth with a breathy laugh that only amplifies the awkwardness of the moment.
“For the record, I like having you here.” He squeezes Immy’s shoulder and adds, “Both of you.”
“I wish we could stay and watch,” Immy pouts, whinier than usual.
I crouch down to talk her through it. “I know. I’m sad about it, too. But we need to let Hairy out, then I think we should drown our sadness in the biggest order of nuggets Goldie can make. Sound good?”
“No!” she shouts. “I want to watch my dad!” She screeches in a way that is so outside of normal for her that I just stare at her, dumbfounded. In a swift motion, Anders scoops her up, takes my place on the rock wall, and whispers in her ear.
It finally occurs to me—just at this moment—that not only are we past due for dinner, but it’s almost time for bed, and her ibuprofen has probably worn off. We played hard in the pool, and it’staking a toll on her little five-year-old body. How did I not think of this? I have to be the most careless nanny of all time.
You’re not meant to be taking care of children, a desperate voice whispers in the back of my mind. The thought feels like an ocean of salt being rubbed in a wound that never seems to heal.
That’s when it registers that the entire production crew is fixated on this scene, waiting for Anders to scoot us away so they can finish their jobs and go home. Everyone—Micah Watson, Christopher Marchant, Darth Oliver—saw Imogen scream at me, and how I froze like a deer waiting to get run over by a truck. And now they’re all watching, their faces a mixture of annoyance and anger. I wonder how hard it is to get into the Witness Protection Program?
I need to get out of here. My gaze swings through the smorgasbord of people judging me, to Imogen. Anders is still whispering in her ear, but now she’s smiling and whispering back, even with remnants of tears clinging to her long eyelashes. She grins at me and I know right away that something is up.
“What?” I check my clothing for anything unfastened, unzipped, or dangling.
“Nothing,” she chirps, hopping down from Anders’ knee. “Ready to go?” She grabs my hand.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the rollercoaster of Imogen’s emotions, but I squeeze her tiny fingers and smile at her. “Sure.” I turn to her handsome dad. “See you in a few?”
“Can’t wait.” Then he slides his big hand behind my neck, ducks down, and presses a soft, leisurely kiss to my lips. His thumb drags down my cheek and he smirks as he pulls away.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. My eyes dart to Imogen, who is in no way mentally prepared for this development, then to the film crew. Micah’s face is dark red. Christopher is having words with Oliver. “You’re going to get us in trouble!”
Imogen’s giggle bounces off the buildings around us. “I told him to do that!” She is proud of herself, but she has no idea the ripple-effect of problems she just started. I’m already dreading the dressing down I’m surely going to get from Oliver.
“A five-year-old put you up to that and you listened?” I quirk an eyebrow at him.
“Not that exactly, but… yeah.” He drops a whisper of a kiss to my cheek, chaste enough for church. Then he plants a loud, smacking kiss on his daughter’s cheek. “See you ladies in a little bit.”
“Ugh.” I faceplant on the couch in my condo, dangling my feet off the edge of the cushion. What a day. I passed the childcare baton to Anders the second he came in the door tonight, eager for rest and a minute away from him. I’m in desperate need of perspective.
Oliver didn’t contact me (read: rip me a new one) the way I expected him to after Imogen and I left the set. That ax has been dangling over my head all evening and it's taking a toll. I don't know what Anders was thinking with that very public kiss. Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly appreciated it. I can still feel it on my lips and I swear I can smell him on my clothes. But why did he choose that moment to hurdle over every rule we've made—in front of every person who has an interest in our relationship remaining professional? His director, Oliver, Micah, Imogen…
“Ugh!” I groan into the velvety couch again, pounding it with my fist.
“You’re home early.”
I startle and lift my face off the cushion. Mercer is lying sideways on our loveseat with her legs draped over the arm. Her blonde hair is in its standard sloppy ponytail, and her tall athletic socks are sagging off of her toes.
