Chapter 11
ELEVEN
BANG BANG BOOM — THE MOFFATTS
The next few days pass in a blur. Working twelve-hours shifts will generally do that to you, although my load is lighter than some of the other camera operators on the crew.
Despite this, I still find myself falling into bed each night as if I haven’t slept in days. Unfortunately, there’s no restorative sleep to be had—my anxieties have returned in full force, waking me up every hour in a panic, thinking I’ve forgotten to charge my batteries or log footage.
By Friday, I’m completely fed up with the sleep interruptions. After my fourth wake-up, I fling the sheets off in a fit of sleep-deprived rage and stomp around my room looking for my sneakers.
Because a normal person would totally go for a run at five in the morning.
On a cruise ship.
In the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.
Once I’ve located them wedged under three empty gear cases, I yank on my sports bra, a pair of yoga pants, and a long-sleeved athletic shirt. I lace up my shoes, then make my way down the quiet hallway and up the stairs to the Lido deck.
The briny sea air and cool humidity wash over my senses like a wave as the automatic doors open for me.
My skin prickles with goosebumps underneath the thin running shirt, and I suppress a shiver.
Even though it will be scorching by noon, the early morning breeze is refreshing, and I can already feel my mood lifting.
The top deck of the Gemstone was built with a walking track, which loops around the entire ship.
During the day, it’s typically busy with passengers.
But now, just before dawn, the deck is perfectly quiet.
I climb the stairs near the pool to the top deck and slowly ease my body into a jog, letting my limbs and muscles warm up.
In my early twenties, I took up running during a shoot, as a means of becoming closer with a DOP I looked up to.
When we were filming, he was gruff and reserved; nearly impossible to get to know.
But he was also dedicated, spending an hour running each morning, no matter where we were in the world.
One day, he asked me if I ran, and if I wanted to join him; to which I (obviously) replied, “Yes, of course, I love running!”—even though I did not run, nor did I love it.
Still, joining him on those quiet morning runs proved that I, too, was dedicated.
Not only did I learn to run, but I also gained a new hobby that helps me clear my head before a long day of often-challenging work.
And, better yet, that gruff DOP became a great mentor to me, until he retired a few years ago.
Even during this past year, after Dad died—I never stopped running.
After a few laps, the soft hues of sunrise begin to seep into the inky black sky, chasing away the shadows of night. As I loop around the bow of the ship, I notice a lone figure leaning over the rail, gazing out at the ocean.
My stomach drops, and for a split second, all I can think about is whether I’m about to witness something horrific.
That thought is stopped in its tracks when the figure turns and I can make out their features under the dim overhead lights: broad shoulders, and dark hair that curls softly at his nape.
His dark, expressive eyes fasten on me behind his glasses, and he offers an easy smile as I slow to a stop in front of him.
“Chef Braddock,” I gasp, voice raspy and chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. “It’s, like, five in the morning. You know that, right?”
His gaze is unwavering as he chuckles quietly. I’ve only met this man twice now, but the way his entire face lights up when he finds joy or humor in something is so addictive that I find myself working harder to coax those sounds and smiles out of him.
“Yes, I know what time it is,” he replies, a smirk curling at the edges of his perfect mouth. “Do you?”
Nolan leans back and props his elbows up on the smooth, polished rail, and I notice a thermos in one of his hands. I practically salivate at the thought of coffee.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I quip, coming to stand next to him. I lean over the railing and look out at the dark sea. He turns his body to adopt a similar posture.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks. He’s in his uniform, the jacket buttoned up, and a red stain—strawberry, maybe?—already smeared across his sleeve. I wonder how long he’s been awake.
“It’s gorgeous. Do you come up here often?”
“Just about every morning,” he admits, and I nod.
I can see why he would. The distant calling of the gulls overhead harmonizes with the soothing, repetitive crash of the waves below.
Combined with the gentle breeze and the subtle rocking of the ship, it feels like a dream come to life.
Waking up to this every morning wouldn’t heal all the sadness I’ve contended with over the past year, but it would certainly help.
“You know, you owe me an answer to my question.” Nolan’s voice breaks the comfortable silence, and I turn my head to look up at him.
“I know,” I groan, embarrassed. “But I just don’t think I can answer that question, because how could I think of just one lyric to stare at for the rest of my life?”
“You seemed to like mine.” The way he says that last word, rough-edged and roguish sends a tiny shiver down my spine, but I shake it off.
“I do, but that’s because it caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting to see it inked on someone’s skin. It’s so…”
“Juvenile?” he offers teasingly, flashing me a finger-gun, then a wink for added effect.
“I was going to say cool in an ironic way, but I’ve changed my mind now,” I deadpan.
Nolan laughs and bumps my shoulder with his. “Fine, I’ll give you a pass on my question. Now it’s your turn, though.”
“My turn?”
“Well, you started the game.”
“Oh, is this a game now?” I tease, hoping my tone reads as flirty and not accusatory. The way the edge of his eyes crease as his smile deepens tells me it does.
“I mean, we didn’t exactly discuss terms or anything, but I figure it’s like twenty questions,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “So, you got your one skip, and now it’s your turn to ask.”
He lifts the thermos to take a slow, deep gulp of his coffee, but his eyes remain steady on mine.
I’m beginning to realize that Nolan wasn’t embarrassed at all by my very personal question that day in the kitchen—actually, he was stumped. And, seemingly, he was into it.
I blow out a quiet sigh, trying to think of something interesting while also maintaining eye contact. A feat for someone like me, apparently.
Somehow, knowing that he’s enjoying this makes it even harder. Because now, not only am I self-conscious about seeming way too into him, I also don’t want to give him a question that’s either too weird, or not unique enough.
I completely blank.
Idiota.
“Alright,” I say, nodding to the thermos in Nolan’s hand. “Coffee or tea?”
He unscrews the cap, then lifts the thermos to his mouth and takes a small sip this time before answering. “Coffee.”
Seeing an opportunity, I bite my bottom lip, flicking my wide-eyed gaze from Nolan’s face to his thermos and back again, and praying he gets the message. The message being: I want your coffee. Please.
He clears his throat, his eyes darkening as he says, in as serious a tone as he can muster without laughing, “Chloe, would you happen to want some of this coffee I have here?”
I place my hand over my heart and nod eagerly.
“That’s the nicest thing a man has ever asked me,” I chirp, taking the thermos from him like the greedy little caffeine gremlin I am.
“I sincerely hope that’s not true,” he groans, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
Nolan’s gaze shifts to mine, and our eyes lock again.
This time, I notice their real color, just as the early morning sun begins to bathe the world in soft light.
What I thought was a warm brown before is actually a brilliant shade of mossy green, scattered with dark flecks of rich chocolate.
I’ve never seen such beautiful eyes on a man before.
A gull calls out overhead and I startle, pulling my gaze away from Nolan.
My awareness of how close we are comes into sharp focus, his shoulder brushing mine as he adjusts his position against the railing.
Unsure of what to do with myself, I take a long sip of coffee.
My eyes drift closed as I let the rich flavor and familiar bite of it chase away the butterflies that have suddenly taken up residence in my belly.
“Your turn,” I say, handing the thermos back to Nolan.
“Hmm…” he considers, biting his bottom lip gently.
My attention snags on the action but I quickly glance away, not wanting it to look like I’m staring.
He clears his throat, having apparently landed on a question.
“If the Gemstone was going to travel to any port, anywhere in the world, where would you want it to stop?”
“Oh, that’s a great question,” I say, impressed. “If I were a guest? I’d probably say Vietnam. I’ve been once, and wanted to return ever since. It’s such a gorgeous country, and the people are wonderful.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him as he cocks his head to one side, his gaze landing on me. “Why if you were a guest?”
“Because the Love at First Sail crew don’t really get to leave the ship,” I say nonchalantly, even though it irritates me to no end.
I mean, what’s the point in traveling for work if you’re stuck on a stupid floating city?
“Why not? I’ve seen other crew members getting off the ship with the contestants when we’re in port.”
I shrug and turn to face him. His eyes are curious, bright.
“Those are the DOPs,” I explain. “I’m just a B-roll operator. But also, I’m kind of a backup…kind of like the guy stuck on the bench in a baseball game, I think? I’m not actually a sports fan, so that metaphor might be totally off base—”
I snicker, realizing my accidental pun, and catch Nolan’s brows shoot up.
“Get it?” I say encouragingly. “Off base?”