When she nods, my mother stands. “We didn’t even get to dessert. I’ll pack somechokladbollarfor you.” She leaves to fill a repurposed cottage cheese tub with a few of the nostalgic, chocolatey treats. It’s a gesture I’ve seen my mother make many times, though it’s sometimes a margarine or Cool Whip container.
“I thinkI’ll call the hotel and tell them I need a late check-in. How far is it from here?”
I don’t want her to leave. “Forty-five minutes or so.” How can I ask her to stay when this is supposed to be her vacation? She deserves a break from me and Immy, but I haven’t been away from her except to sleep and work this week. I don’t like it.Don’t go.
She pulls her phone from her bag and walks my parents tiny foyer to make the call. I follow my mother into the kitchen to track down some comfortchokladbollar. I’m lucky. She still has them out when I catch up to her. I pop one in my mouth whole.
“Slow down,Sockergris. You’ll get sick.” My momtsksand swats my hand away before I can take another one. Then she whispers, “I like this one,” with a nod toward the living room.
“She’s cool, right? I thought you’d like her.”
“I do.” Her blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’reyouwith her. I like that.”
I chuckle to hide my bruised pride. “Who else would I be?”
She purses her lips to the side, thinking. “With Cassidy you were—”
“I know.” During my brief mistake of a marriage to Cassidy, I bore no resemblance to the son she raised. I’d regret it fully except it resulted in the best part of my life—Imogen. My mother has never held back her opinion on the subject of the women I date and she likes to make sure I stay in line. I wonder if she and Oliver have been trading texts again.
“Um, Anders?” Sunny peeks around the corner into the kitchen and curls a finger at me to follow her.
My heart thumps at the invitation. She is killing me, and she has no idea. I would follow her anywhere. For now, I follow her into my parents’ living room.
“What’s up?”
She looks worried and uncomfortable. “The hotel can’t find my reservation.”
“I’ll call them. They have to—”
She sighs. “Anders, trust me. I know this business. I checked every possible name and scenario.” She bites her lip, like she doesn’t want to say what she needs to say next. “There isn’t a reservation for me, and they have no openings for this weekend.”
21. Sunny Says Too Much
“Oliver made the reservation. You know Ollie—there’s no way…” Anders shakes his head, pulling his phone from his back pocket. “Why don’t you go in there and try a chocolate ball while I sort this out? I’ll just be a minute.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and leaves through the front door.
I ponder our list of carefully selected rules for keeping professional boundaries in place. This man has blown through all of them. It’s a dream. And a nightmare. I can’t shake the nagging feeling that everything is going to fall to pieces because Anders and I galavanted to Minnesota like a couple of teenagers.
I wander into the kitchen, nervous without a plan for the night. It’s getting late, and I don’t have a hotel reservation. Are Anders’ parents early-to-bed kind of people and I’m wearing out my welcome? Maybe I can call a rideshare and find a hotel nearby. These thoughts are spinning in my mind when I find a chocolate-coated Immy sitting at the counter with her grandpa. I squeeze her in a side hug.
“Mind if I join you?” I perch on a barstool. “Anders is making a phone call.”
Johan slides a little container of chocolate balls toward me. “You should have some before we eat them all.”
“Dad had some, too, Morfie,” Immy defends herself, her mouth full of slobbery chocolate.
I gingerly pick up one of the treats with a whisper to Imogen, “Don’t talk with your mouth full of food, kiddo.” I take a delicate bite of the chocolate ball. “Thith ith good,” I pop the rest of the mind-blowing dessert into my mouth with a dramatic eye roll. “Oh man, that’th delithious,” I moan.
Imogen giggles. “You said not to talk with food in my mouth!”
“I know.” I wink at her. Anders’ dorkiness is rubbing off on me. “Your Mormie’s treats are too good, I guess.”
Johan observes me quietly. His pleased smile is weathered and one-dimpled—the aged version of his son’s grin. I bet poor, young Tillie didn’t stand a chance. “They’re Anders and Immy’s favorite,” he says in his faint Swedish accent. “Have another.”
I nod, happily snatching just one more. “Thanks.”
The three of us work our way through a few more chocolate balls—I couldn’t stop at one more—in companionable silence.
Immy swallows her chocolate and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand with a long, satisfied sigh. “Do you really hafta go to a hotel?”
