Chapter 9
NINE
TUBTHUMPING — CHUMBAWAMBA
A muffled rap-rap-rap on my stateroom door drags me from a deep sleep. After tossing and turning for hours, I had finally—finally!—fallen into a delicious slumber.
Just to be woken up by…who is that?
I blink once. Twice. Then my eyelids slowly flutter closed again.
As if moving through molasses, my brain slowly tries to untangle itself from whatever dream is still holding my consciousness hostage. I can feel my body slipping back into sleep.
I want to give in…but another quick knock forces me back to reality. I let out a soft groan into the stiff pillow, the faded scent of bleach and a citrusy detergent assaulting my nostrils.
Pushing myself up, I roll out of bed and stumble toward the door, not even checking to see if I’m wearing pants or not.
“I was actually sleeping for once,” I growl as I yank the door open, expecting to see Sora’s sweet and impossibly alert face.
But my next words die on my lips as I’m greeted instead by a young man with sandy blond hair and square-framed glasses, a tense smile plastered on his face.
I stare at him for longer than is probably polite, not entirely sure who he is or why he’s here.
Briefly, I wonder if I have some sort of concussion. It would explain how I was able to sleep so deeply for once.
Then I notice the tray of food in his hands.
As if on cue, my stomach growls. But right away, all I can think about is coffee.
“I think you have the wrong room,” I mumble with a yawn. I start to close the door, but the man plants his foot directly in front of it, effectively propping it open—and also triggering my pre-caffeine rage. My eyes narrow.
Any self-aware person knows that a move like that is going to appear threatening. Apparently, this man is at least somewhat sane, because the expression he’s wearing, as we both stare down at his shiny black dress shoe wedged against my door, is a mix of surprise and horror.
He immediately pulls his foot back.
“I am so sorry, Ms. H-Hill. You are Ms. Hill, right?” he stammers out, peering down at the paper clenched between his fingers and then back up at me.
I pause. “Uh…yeah, that’s me.”
“It says here that this is to be delivered to your room—”
“But I didn’t order breakfast.”
“And to—” He clears his throat, then recites the words on the page. “And to not take no for an answer, by whatever means necessary.”
I blink.
What. The. Fuck.
He looks down at the paper again, then up at me, likely questioning the life choices that have brought him to this exact moment.
“I beg your finest pardon?” I ask, my eyes wide.
“I’m—I’m not going to do that, though, okay?” he rushes to say. “But if Chef Braddock asks, can you, like—can you just tell him I did?”
It takes me a moment to register what he’s just said, and then I snort a laugh.
Chef Braddock.
Nolan.
I think back to his words yesterday, urging me not to skimp on breakfast.
Which, obviously, I did, having only circled the coffee selection and leaving everything else blank.
So what? Breakfast is overrated. Besides, no breakfast means more room for coffee.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I sigh, stepping back and opening the door wider so the young man can step in.
Cautiously, as if walking into the lair of a troll queen, he slips through the doorway, placing the tray on the desk behind me and removing the metal cover.
The smell of fried potatoes and spicy cinnamon fills the air immediately, and my traitorous stomach growls again.
“Is Chef Braddock always such a busybody?” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.
Mostly to show how annoyed I am, but also because I’m not wearing a bra, and it’s gotten a bit chilly in the room with the door open.
“I’m…not sure what you mean, ma’am,” he replies, his tone wary.
Ugh, strike two.
I must be staring daggers at this poor kid for his careless use of the word “ma’am” (seriously, I thought people stopped using that word in the late ’90s!), because a look of pure fear flashes across his punchable face.
Without another word, he dips his head and makes a beeline for the door, letting it swing shut behind him without another glance my way.
The quiet of the room envelops me. I sigh and stare at the door for a moment, afraid the man will be knocking again momentarily, back with more food.
I really need to work on my people skills. But who can blame me? It’s literally six in the morning.
The scent of coffee breaks my trance, and I turn to inspect the steaming plate.
Eggs, bacon, sausage, home fries—plus a side plate of French toast, dusted lightly with icing sugar and cinnamon, and a small bowl of berries. There’s even a tiny pitcher of syrup.
It smells incredible.
I spot a folded piece of paper with my name on it propped beside the larger plate and pick it up. I unfold it to see a short note, written in a hasty scrawl.
Chloe,
To answer your question from yesterday, I like music from the ’90s because it’s nostalgic, mostly. But also because it reminds me not to take life too seriously.
Your turn. If you could tattoo one lyric on your skin, what would it be?
N.
P.S. I know you said you don’t like breakfast, but you haven’t tried mine.
My chest warms at the thought of Nolan going through the trouble of putting together breakfast for me even earlier than the kitchen usually does. It’s been so long since anyone cooked me a meal.
Between my dad, before he was sick, and Kyla—who, frankly, can’t cook to save her life—the last time anyone made me a meal that I didn’t pay for was probably an ex-boyfriend.
And even then, I wouldn’t be able to confidently confirm whether they had done it because they genuinely wanted to take care of me, or because they were hoping for something in return.
It was likely the latter, given my not-so-stellar track record when it comes to dating.
I pick up a few home fries, pop them in my mouth, and chew—they’re good.
Not too salty, perfectly crisp around the edges, but still soft in the middle.
Savory. Like something you’d find replacing the frites in a steak frites dish at a high-end, yet trendy, restaurant.
I try the bacon next, then the eggs, each bite perfectly cooked and seasoned.
Although I’ve never been a fan of eggs, I don’t hate Nolan’s. So that’s a plus.
Finally, I drench the French toast in syrup, swiping up a drop that lands on the plate and sticking my finger in my mouth to taste it.
“Ohhhh, that’s the good stuff,” I mumble, savoring the rich flavor of real maple syrup. It’s thin and not overly sweet, unlike the over-processed crap that most people buy. Where I’m from, that “table syrup” stuff is considered pure sacrilege—an affront to the entire country.
I cut off a corner of the toast with the edge of my fork and stuff the big, fluffy piece in my mouth. I only need to chew for a few seconds before I melt.
“Damn it, Nolan,” I groan, my mouth still half full. “Why’d you have to make me fall in love with breakfast?”
I grab the note and read his words again.
This is flirting, right?
I mean, he had every reason to blow me off after my weirdly personal question…but he didn’t. In fact, he went out of his way to keep his promise. And it came with a full plate of food. Really good food.
I try to imagine Nolan frying the potatoes and bacon himself, writing the note off to the side of the stovetop, then passing the tray to the server and sending him along to my room.
Unless, of course, my tray was just one more in the long list of orders going out to crew members this morning—and thus was cooked by some nameless chef on shift, and not Nolan himself.
But that doesn’t feel like something he would do; not when he also gave very specific instructions to the poor kid tasked with delivering my meal—and a handwritten note, to boot.
The phone ringing on the table next to the tray breaks me out of my thoughts, and I pick it up quickly.
“Hello?”
Glen’s voice booms through the earpiece, already sounding frayed at the edges.
“Chloe, we’re doing confessionals. I need you on the Love deck.”
“Now?” I rap my knuckles on my iPhone to wake it and check the time. It isn’t even close to call time. “I thought you needed me to grab some time-lapse footage of us coming into port?”
“I’ve sent a cam assist to do that. Doug is down with some kind of bug, and we want to get footage before the group leaves for their first excursion.”
I glance at my battery chargers; they all blink green, which means my equipment is fully charged. No excuse not to say yes.
“Sure, no problem. I’ll meet you upstairs in fifteen?”
“Make it ten.”
Before I can respond to Glen’s clipped words, he hangs up.
My eyes scan over the tray of half-eaten food and I’m silently grateful for Nolan’s thoughtfulness. Glen’s snippy tone only annoyed me half as much as it usually does.
Maybe Nolan was on to something with this whole “breakfast is the most important meal of the day” thing.
It certainly makes you better equipped to handle assholes.
By the time I make it up to the Love at First Sail deck, the sun has broken over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of periwinkle and forget-me-not blue. Lazy waves lap at the side of the ship, and the faint cries of gulls overhead tells me that we’re nearing port.
I pause for a minute to snap a picture for Kyla, sending it off to her with a heart emoji. Her reply arrives a few seconds later.
KYLA: I hate you so much right now.
I chuckle quietly as I look out over the ocean. As I enjoy the quiet serenity of the sea at dawn, I can’t help but think about Dad.
Hazy memories of early morning fishing trips float to the surface of my mind, and for a moment, I let them linger.
Dad loved watching the sun rise, and the peaceful contentment that came with it in the hour before most of the world rose for the day.
I had never been an early bird, except for when we enjoyed time together out on the lake.