Chapter 8
EIGHT
STEAL MY SUNSHINE — LEN
Making my way to the ship’s main galley the next morning proves to be a bit of a challenge.
Despite the fact that I haven’t even introduced myself to another person on the crew since filming began, I keep getting stopped by nervous PAs and camera assistants whose questions range from “Do you know how Dan takes his coffee?” (I do not, and I don’t even know who Dan is) to “I have a headache today, do you think they’d let me take the morning off?
” (Wouldn’t count on it, Brad—better pop some Advil and get to work).
I don’t know how these people know my name when I’ve never even seen their faces before, but something tells me I have Sora to thank for my newfound fame.
After filming the rest of the sailaway party yesterday, plus about six hours of capturing B-roll around the ship, Sora and I met for a drink in her room.
She proceeded to tell me how much she’s appreciated my help over the last few days, and I told her I’m always happy to help someone who’s just starting out.
I guess she took that to mean I’m happy to help anyone who needs it.
Because by the time I get to the main galley, I’ve handed out hallway pep talks to two PAs, three camera assistants, and a sound guy who I’m pretty sure has been in this industry for a few years already.
I’m starting to feel like the Pied Piper of entry-level Gen Zs.
Untucking the crew tag around my neck from beneath my shirt—so it’s obvious I’m not just some guest who has wandered into the bowels of the ship—I scan the busy kitchen space for some sort of office.
Sora’s handwriting is hard to make out, so I’m not exactly sure who I’m meeting, only that I’m to meet them at 7 AM sharp in the main culinary office to drop off the collected crew menus.
The kitchen is deeper than I expect it to be, with two long stainless-steel prep stations sitting parallel to a huge flat top grill, where several chefs are frying something that smells like bacon and potatoes.
On the other side of the room, three sets of oversized white doors house industrial fridges and freezers, and a large portion of the stark white wall is covered in laminated photos of menus and dishes with names scribbled underneath.
“Can I help you?” calls a low feminine voice from one of the prep stations.
I snap my head to the right to see a woman dressed in black pants and a bright yellow dress shirt, the standard uniform for servers in the main dining room.
But before I can fully commit to that assumption, I see her hands are moving deftly across a cutting board, slicing up veggies and tossing them into a big plastic tub.
“Oh, um, I’m looking for the main office. I’m supposed to be meeting, uh…” I squint down at Sora’s note again, trying to make out the name. “Executive Chef…Bedrock?”
The woman raises a brow, as if she doesn’t believe me at first, then nods and sets down her knife, wiping her hands on the apron I now notice tied around her waist.
“Braddock,” she corrects. As she moves closer to me, I realize that she’s a bit older than I first guessed—maybe in her fifties.
Crow’s feet fan out from the corners of her eyes, and her hair is actually a light shade of gray, rather than the dishwater blond it looked like under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Right, Chef Braddock.”
“It’s a bit of a maze back here,” she says matter-of-factly, in an easy Southern drawl. “You’re just going to get lost if I give you directions. I’ll walk you over, come on.”
Before I can even mumble out my thanks, she’s striding away down the long corridor, feet moving quickly and with minimal effort. She’s fast. I mean, I guess you have to be, on a ship this big. She probably does 20,000 steps a day, easy, and without breaking a sweat.
“You’re with the Love crew?” she asks over her shoulder as she turns down a shorter hallway that leads to what appears to be an empty kitchen, identical to the one we just came from.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Are you a server? Or do you work in the kitchen?”
She lets out a husky laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I get the impression that this woman wears many hats, just by the way she walks—like she’s got too much to do and not enough time to do it all.
“I’m the front-of-house manager for the dining areas,” she answers. “But I like to help out in the back when I can. They’re short-staffed as it is, and I like prepping. It’s therapeutic.”
“I can definitely see that,” I offer with a smile.
I’m not lying to her. I do see the appeal—in theory.
There’s just no way in hell I could ever do that job.
I know I would quickly find myself bored to tears and spiraling into my own thoughts.
By the time I finished prepping, I’d probably be deep into an imaginary argument with a person I interacted with ten years ago. And, more than likely, losing.
Even though I’m a step behind her, the energy emanating from this woman is warm and welcoming. I know she’s slowed her pace considerably for me, and I’m grateful.
“I’m Chloe, by the way,” I say from behind her. She stops sharply and I nearly collide with her back. Unfazed, she spins around and sticks out her hand for me to shake.
“I’m Shayla,” she says, beaming at me. “But you can call me Mama.”
My brows raise. “Mama?”
“Everyone here is my kid. I’m the oldest in this department, and I’ve been here since this ship first hit the water. I’ve trained them all. I’ve been here for everything. And I do whatever I can to keep my kids happy.”
Her handshake is firm, but not aggressive. I decide on the spot that I really like Shayla, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
After zigzagging through a few more narrow corridors and a third kitchen—this one buzzing with at least twenty kitchen staff members rushing about and shouting over each other—Mama Shayla finally pauses outside a white steel door, nondescript other than being scuffed from years of use. She raises her hand to knock.
She hesitates, though, as we both catch the thudding beat of music coming from behind the door.
Something about it seems…vaguely familiar, and I cock my head to the side as I strain to make out exactly what I’m hearing.
I meet Mama Shayla’s eyes just as my brain identifies the melody of Chumbawamba’s 1997 hit song Tubthumping.
“Um…” I start, but before I can continue, whoever is behind the door starts singing along to the tune.
Loudly. Enthusiastically. And off-key.
Shayla and I cringe in tandem.
“Should we let them finish the chorus, at least?” I quip. She chuckles, then lands two quick, loud knocks on the door.
Almost immediately, it swings open to reveal a cramped, messy office, with papers pinned to, seemingly, every available surface.
I can’t tell if the walls are covered in corkboard or if the papers have just been pinned directly into the drywall, but the clutter immediately gives me a spinning sensation of claustrophobia.
“Mama!” A warm, familiar voice booms from inside. I peek around the doorframe and my gaze lands on Nolan, the chef from the dock. His dark eyes meet mine, and his lopsided smile spreads into a full-blown grin.
“The melon murderer,” he says in that lilting Australian drawl; playfully serious, brows waggling. “We meet again.”
I feel my chest grow hot, and I just know my cheeks have gone crimson.
Goddamnit.
“Oh, hi,” I say, trying to keep my stupid little smirk looking natural, and not at all over-the-top.
Be cool, Chloe.
“Nice to see you again,” I murmur politely.
“Y’all know each other?” Mama Shayla asks, as she looks back and forth between the two of us in surprise.
“Ah, yes—Chloe, here? Well, she and I go way back,” Nolan says, his tone so sincere that even I’m a little convinced we didn’t just meet yesterday. “She’s not exactly fond of fruit, though, so be careful around her.”
Mama Shayla just shakes her head good-naturedly.
“Whatever you say, Chef,” she responds, clearly confused but entirely unbothered, as if this kind of playful banter is just another day at the office for her.
I shift my gaze back to Nolan and notice that his eyes are still locked on me, unflinching.
My stomach flutters. Eye contact has never been easy for me.
It always leaves me feeling too vulnerable, too exposed.
So, you can imagine how sustained eye contact with a tall, tattooed man, whose smile is like concentrated sunshine, might make me shiver.
My gaze drops to my feet.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to…whatever this reunion is,” Mama Shayla says, clearing her throat. “It was nice to meet you, Chloe. I hope to see you around again real soon.”
I look up sharply, but before I can beg her to stay, and to not leave me alone with Nolan, who is still looking at me…she’s gone.
And so, apparently, is my ability to speak. I blink at him stupidly.
“So, what can I do for you?” Nolan asks, apparently realizing I’m not going to say anything.
Resting his hands, one on top of the other, on his stomach, he leans back in his worn office chair.
I take in the confident way he sits, but also the subtle hint of laugh lines creasing the corners of his warm brown eyes, shadowed by long, delicate lashes.
His skin is slightly bronzed, without a single visible tan line, which tells me he’s never lived far from the sun’s rays, and his dense beard is neatly trimmed.
He’s handsome, in the “tall and dark” way—but it’s his smile that really makes my breath catch.
“I have the production crew’s food orders for this week,” I manage to say, holding up the thin stack of paper and giving it an awkward little wave as I take a hesitant step into his office.
“I was asked to drop them off at the main culinary office. I’m supposed to meet with Chef Braddock… is that you?”
He smiles again, this one more polite, and only a little less breathtaking.