Chapter 8 #2
“The one and only.” At this, he stands and gently plucks the papers from my waiting hand, his fingers brushing mine and sending a shiver down my arm.
Nolan pulls out a pair of glasses from a desk drawer and sifts through the menus, nodding absentmindedly as he takes in who has ordered what.
He stops at the end of the stack and pauses, then looks up at me over the rim of his glasses.
“You didn’t submit one?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t really like breakfast. And I’m out of my room before it says the delivery service starts, so I figured I’d just grab whatever’s left over at the buffet at the end of the night.”
That was what I did during my first gig on Love at First Sail. It was easy, and I didn’t have to worry about food sitting out anywhere or getting forgotten. But I realize now that things might have changed since the last time I worked on the ship. Maybe the rules on board are stricter now.
I probably should have confirmed before tossing my menu in the garbage last night.
Thankfully, I also packed a literal suitcase full of snacks—protein bars, chips, granola, you name it.
I’ve basically smuggled an entire pantry on board, with every intention of nibbling my way across the Mediterranean Sea and enjoying real food whenever I have the chance to get off the ship and find a meal in port.
“You don’t like breakfast?” Nolan’s tone is incredulous as he eyes me suspiciously. “Who doesn’t like breakfast?”
I shrug, breaking his gaze to look at my feet again.
“Well, that won’t do,” he says, rifling through the papers on his desk. He finds a blank crew menu sheet and holds it out to me. “Fill this out. And don’t skimp on breakfast, okay? It’s the most important meal of the day.”
I relent with a shaky laugh, accepting the menu from his outstretched hand. He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket and hands it to me, then crosses his arms while he waits.
I put a mark beside coffee for breakfast, but leave the rest of the options unselected.
I really don’t want to order food; it would feel like such a waste.
Besides, I doubt he’ll take a look at the menu once I’ve put it in the stack.
As I scribble my name and room number, I catch sight of one of his tattoos out of the corner of my eye.
Winding between the inky curls of a few monstera leaves on his forearm is a line of words—lyrics, I realize—in small script.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“Is that a Len tattoo?” I sputter, dumbstruck. “As in, early-2000s-Canadian-one-hit-wonder Len?”
The most oft-quoted lyric of the song in question is also its name—“Steal My Sunshine.” The rest of the lyrics are nearly all nonsense…
with the exception of one line, sung at the end of the first verse, and now inked on Nolan’s skin.
That line offers a moment of profound insight, surrounded by incoherent, fragmented thoughts—and it isn’t even about sunshine. Or theft.
It’s about becoming by doing, without holding back—taking action, rather than just imagining.
Nolan turns to me then, throwing me a sly smirk as confirmation that yes, this man does have a Len tattoo.
“I see we have a ’90s pop music connoisseur in the house,” Nolan remarks, a look of impressed incredulity on his face.
“Why do you have a Len tattoo?” Without thinking, I reach out and gently touch his arm, tracing the line of text with my forefinger. A few goosebumps rise up where I’ve touched him, and I yank my hand back sheepishly. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, that was such a weird thing for me to do.”
Nolan barks out a laugh. “It wasn’t weird at all. I’m honestly more surprised that you recognized the lyric.”
“What can I say? I have excellent taste in music.” I smirk, turning my attention back to the menu in my hand. I fold it in half, then hand it and the pen back to him.
“Thanks—I appreciate you dropping these off. Usually, I have to track down a lazy PA who’s too afraid to look for the kitchen, so you’ve saved me the trip,” he says, sliding the menus into a folder on his desk. He motions to the door. “I have to get going. Can I walk you out?”
Nolan leads me back through the maze of corridors until we’re back in the first kitchen I had arrived at this morning. Mama Shayla is nowhere to be seen, and the foot traffic has picked up considerably in the last twenty or so minutes.
“You know how to get back to the main elevators, yeah?” I nod—a lie—but Nolan seems to read my uncertainty.
“Go straight out those double doors and you’ll be on the south side of the main dining room.
Keep walking until you see a ridiculous chandelier, and you should be able to find your way from there. ”
“Thank you!” I say brightly, giving him a genuine smile, which he returns. I feel the urge to look away again, but something stops me. Instead, I hold his gaze for a beat longer and then take a chance. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
His lips quirk into a lopsided smile. “Is it about my taste in music?”
“Actually, yes.” His brows lift; he clearly wasn’t expecting that answer. “Len and Chumbawamba…it seems like you have a thing for music that peaked before the early aughts. Why?”
It’s a weird thing for me to ask. So…personal.
But I can’t help it. The lyric on his arm feels serendipitous.
What are the chances that someone who has clearly—based on his Aussie accent—lived on the opposite side of the globe to me would have also memorized the same singular line of a ridiculous one-hit wonder that had crazy success in Canada the year it was released and then faded from memory?
But the minute the words leave my mouth, I instantly regret asking.
I don’t even know this man. Just because he saved me from a forklift and I noticed his niche tattoo, that doesn’t mean he owes me anything other than a polite smile as we pass each other in the hallways of the ship.
Nolan purses his lips as he considers my question.
“I’ll have to think about that one,” he says slowly.
“Think about the answer, or whether you want to tell me the answer?” I ask.
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
I offer a small smile and nod.
“Alright.”
Except, internally, I’m screaming.
Because what the hell kind of answer was that?
I say goodbye and disappear out the doors and into the dining room, cringing in mortification.
I’ve never been good at small talk, but that was…really something. Of course he would blow me off; that was such a weird thing to ask a person I don’t know. Next time, I should ask him who his preteen celebrity crush was, or if he thinks aliens exist.
As I weave through the dining room toward the lobby, all I can think about is how I am now going to be known to this man as “that strange woman who touches the arms of men she’s just met and asks intensely personal questions,” all thanks to one fifteen-minute encounter.
Now would be a great time for pirates to overtake this stupid ship.