Chapter 15
Andi
Not to sound ridiculous, but after the shitstorm of media today, I selected a restaurant that listed “private” in its description. I just didn’t realize it would be located on top of a mountain.
I thought I’d be grateful to be out of that tiny hotel room, especially after Nolan confirmed his “very single, by choice” status. But as the ground below us shrinks away while the gondola ascends into the sky, I’m having regrets.
“You scared of heights?” he asks, noting my death grip on the bench beside my thighs.
“I didn’t think I was. But this is…ridiculously high,” I say as the wind rocks the gondola with a startling creak.
I peek down at the river snaking through the expanse of lush evergreens below.
We’re only a quarter of the way up, and we’re already approaching clouds.
Technically, it’s excellent inspiration for the romantic scene I was writing at the hotel earlier, if I weren’t so petrified of an imminent demise. “You?”
He leans back on the opposite bench, lips curving into a cocky smirk that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. “If I had a fear of heights, there’s no way I could have gotten into JTF2.”
“You were in special forces?”
“Yup. For a couple years.” He says it so casually, as though he were a run-of-the-mill, low-level public servant, wasting away (physically and spiritually) in a windowless cubicle at the Department of Finance.
To be fair, I’m not surprised. It’s pretty common for the private CPOs to have a special forces background. Besides, Nolan just seems the type. He has that quiet confidence, punctuated by an I-could-kill-you-in-two-seconds-flat intensity.
I lean forward with interest, resting my chin on my hands, determined to keep my eyes on him and not the 2,900-foot distance between this glass hexagon and the ground below.
“Isn’t there a huge screening process to join?
Crazy fitness tests?” One of Gretchen’s main CPOs used to be JTF2, and he’d mentioned how strict they are about who’s even invited to try out.
“The physical tests are honestly the least of your worries. It’s mostly mental, psychological,” he explains, one muscly arm draped over the back of the bench.
“They try to break you, exploit your fears, your weaknesses. They want to know that under immense pressure, in the worst circumstances, you can act right, make the safest choices. Most people fail. Ninety percent, at least.”
I gulp, mentally scanning my laundry list of fears.
Heights, unfinished basements, public speaking, mole rats, being tagged in negative book reviews, readers taking the time out of their lives to email me about typos or grammatical errors in my books, disappointing Gretchen and my mother into oblivion, among many others.
Any would suffice. “What fear of yours did they exploit?”
He gazes out the foggy window, contemplating. We’re on what looks to be the last stretch of incline. “This sounds ridiculous, but things like small spaces and heights don’t bother me.”
“What about death? Isn’t everyone afraid of death?” I ask, white-knuckling the bench as the gondola sways to the side from a gust of wind. Yup. I’m definitely not special forces material.
“Probably. But I’m not scared about it happening in those ways, I guess.”
“So what are you afraid of, then?” I ask, growing even more curious.
“I’ve been trying to figure it out, which is why I spent so much of my twenties pushing myself. Doing reckless shit. Trying to find out why things that should be scary as fuck don’t faze me. I haven’t come up with the answer,” he says honestly.
“You don’t even have weird, irrational phobias?” I prod, growing increasingly convinced that this man is some sort of lab-grown Captain America type (the bearded, maple-syrup-infused Canadian edition, obviously) with zero weaknesses.
“Aren’t most phobias irrational?”
“No! A phobia of snakes is perfectly rational. Some types can kill you. Same with grizzly bears, like the ones probably roaming the forest below us,” I note, avoiding looking down. “But I mean weird ones…like on that old TLC show? Remember the person who was afraid of tinfoil? Or grapes?”
He barks out a laugh as we reach the top. The A-frame restaurant looks irresistibly cozy from here. “Grapes?”
“Yes, grapes,” I insist, trying to keep a straight face as the gondola lurches to a sudden stop. “You could choke on them. They could roll off the counter and you could slip on them.”
He grabs my arm, steadying me before guiding me onto the platform. “Okay, fair point. But tinfoil? What’s so terrifying about a thin sheet of metal?”
“Tinfoil is sharp. Paper cuts,” I argue, grateful to be back on solid ground.
“That’s true. I‘ll be more sensitive,” he promises, stepping aside to let me walk ahead.
The restaurant is rustic-fancy, which suits my choice to wear a simple chiffon floral print dress (a decision I angsted over for the better part of my evening instead of hitting my word count goal, not that I needed to, since it’s not like this is a real date).
It’s also fairly empty. Large windows line the far wall, offering near-panoramic views of the mountains.
A large fireplace stands in the middle, the flames casting a warm glow around the dining room.
We select a wooden booth tucked into the far corner of the bar, sitting for only a couple seconds before a young waiter with a gloriously curly man-bun approaches with menus.
He introduces himself as Ralph over the distant strains of folk music playing through the sound system.
The moment the name leaves his lips, Nolan shoots me a wide-eyed look over the top of his menu.
I tilt my head knowingly when the waiter leaves. “Why the look? What’s wrong with poor Ralph?”
A shrug. “Nothing. He just doesn’t look like a Ralph. He gives me Randy energy.”
“How so?”
Nolan subtly eyes Ralph, who’s innocently chatting with the bartender across the room. “Ralph strikes me as a banker who collects stamps as a side gig. This waiter looks like he lives in a vintage van and knows all the best surfing spots. He probably owns a Hawaiian shirt or two. Or five.”
A bubble of laughter comes out, muffled by the menu in front of my face. It reminds me of how he critiqued my main character’s name the night we met. “You’re really big on names, aren’t you?”
“Names set the tone for a person’s entire life,” he explains, doodling a swirl on the wooden tabletop with his index finger. “A name can affect someone’s entire first impression of you. Make you think certain things.”
“Good point. I never really thought about it like that. When I name characters in my books, I look at a list of common names from the year they were born, close my eyes, and choose one in under ten seconds.”
Amusement flirts at the corner of his lips. “Like Bryce?”
“Exactly. For the record, I changed his name to Brady at your suggestion.”
He scrunches his face, pained. Before he can express verbal disapproval for Brady, he’s interrupted when Ralph returns with a pad of paper and pen in hand. “Random question. Do you own a Hawaiian shirt?”
“Yeah, man! I lived in Hawaii for a couple months,” Ralph says before taking our orders.
Nolan gets the bison short ribs and potatoes, while I opt for a pesto pasta with a side of fries.
I regret it immediately, because pesto tends to get stuck in your teeth.
But by the time I come to my senses, Ralph is already speed-walking away, man-bun bouncing happily on the top of his head with each step.
Nolan flashes me a knowing look. “Told you. Shoulda been a Randy.”
I rest my elbows on the table and lean forward. It’s one of those booths that’s a few too many inches from the table. “What about me?”
“Well, you surprised me. I wouldn’t think an Andi would be a beer girl,” he says, rolling up the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt.
I shrug, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. They’re hand-carved brown bears with massive bellies. “No?”
“I would have pegged you for a red wine girl. Classy, sophisticated.”
A snort escapes me. “You think I’m sophisticated?”
“You rub elbows with the prime minister, his wife, and members of Parliament on the daily. That makes you one of the most sophisticated people I know.”
“So do you,” I point out.
Nolan takes a long sip of his beer. “I’m security. That’s different. I don’t talk shop.”
“Neither do I. If people bother to talk to me, they talk at me. Not with me. And I wouldn’t know the difference between a cabernet from a French villa and the bottles they serve at East Side Mario’s. I don’t actually drink a lot in general. I mean, besides that night we met,” I add.
“Ah, that night,” he says wistfully, his grin tilting.
“Thanks, by the way,” I say, mindlessly spinning the bear shakers, my cheeks growing hotter by the second.
“For what?”
“For being so nice. Not taking advantage of me. I was not in the best state of mind.” That’s putting it mildly.
He levels me with a look, only partially distracted by the arrival of our drinks and food. “Please don’t thank me for not taking advantage of you,” he says once Ralph walks out of earshot.
I pull my bowl of pasta and my emotional support side of fries closer.
“Okay, fair. But I will thank you for putting my desk together. I wrote a lot of words at that desk.” It makes me smile, thinking about how much of a role he played in my writing without even knowing it.
Not only did he encourage me to do it, but he literally set up my physical space to do so.
His lips curve in the tiniest grin before he unrolls his cutlery. “It wasn’t any trouble. Took me like five minutes on my way out.”
“God, the whole night is so embarrassing to even think about,” I say, plucking a piping hot fry out of the basket. It burns my mouth, but I deal with it, because I refuse to spit it out in front of him.