Chapter 12
TWELVE
MMMBOP — HANSON
“Ugh, this sea air is killing my hair,” Maddi, a young PA, groans from across the table as she pulls her platinum blond locks into a high ponytail.
Her pretty face is contorted in a grimace as her fingers catch on the knots, and she whimpers slightly while Sora fixes a few of the strands that are snagged in the elastic band.
“I have a leave-in conditioner I can lend you,” Sora offers, an encouraging smile on her face as her friend lets out a long, low sigh. “I’ll bring it to your room later, okay?”
Maddi nods, defeated.
Of all the crew members aboard the Gemstone, it’s the production and camera assistants I’ve talked to the most. Well, they’ve talked to me. In the halls. On deck. While I’m filming. While they’re supposed to be assisting someone else filming.
What I’m trying to say is that I know a lot about them.
For example, I know that Maddi originally applied to be a camera assistant but was offered a PA role.
Obviously it still bothers her, based on the way she’s spent the past twenty minutes glaring at the table of young men across the room who got those jobs instead.
It’s probably why the usually chipper young woman is in such a cranky mood today, complaining about her hair instead of raging over the insidious misogyny pervading the industry. You know, like I would be.
It’s part of why I hate small talk. I know there’s something else bothering her, percolating beneath the surface, but she’s talking about her hair instead. It just feels so…inauthentic.
But what am I supposed to say?
I can’t just come out and tell her to drop the act and give me something real. Most people don’t react well to that kind of gesture. Well, except Nolan, it seems.
“Don’t you find the salt air messes with your curls, Chloe?
” Maddi asks, jostling me from my thoughts.
I flick my eyes to hers over my beer glass, not expecting to be dragged into the conversation between the two women in front of me.
I’m really only sitting with them because Sora forced me to come tonight, claiming it was “so totally awkward” and she “needed the extra moral support” to hang out with the rest of the crew.
I see now that this was a completely false narrative, made up by a sneaky wannabe producer who is, apparently, also keen on producing me.
At least I know her intentions are good.
She just wants me to be more sociable, to come out of my cranky little cave occasionally.
And a small—very small—part of me wants to…
for her. I see the way she looks at me when I’m giving her advice.
I’m not clueless. She looks up to me. And because of that, I don’t want to give her any reason to be disappointed.
So, I finish my sip, smile at Maddi, and nod.
“Uh, yeah, it’s been frizzy as hell,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sora beaming at me like a proud mother hen.
Nerd.
“Was it this bad the first time you shot Love at First Sail?” Sora asks, and I squint, attempting to recall.
I hadn’t been that concerned with my appearance on that shoot.
Not that I am now, but back then I was so distracted by all the new things I had to learn that I probably could have had a penis drawn on my forehead and I wouldn’t have noticed or cared how many eyes it drew to my face.
Now, things are a little different. Being at this bar is harder than I expected it to be.
Not just because I feel like I’m breaking the rules Glen gave me to stay behind the scenes, but because connecting with others still feels difficult.
I imagined I might come out of my shell more by now—I had with Sora and with Nolan, but I’m starting to wonder if connection will just always look different for me now.
There are more walls to break down, more layers that need to be carefully pulled away, before I can truly be myself.
“I don’t remember, to be honest,” I reply with a subtle shrug. “It was such a long time ago. But…now that I think of it, yeah, that sounds about right. I think a leave-in conditioner definitely helped.”
This satisfies the women, who turn their attention to the rest of the crew partying across the room as they chat jovially about something a contestant did earlier in the day.
I take the opportunity to slide out of the booth and circle around the other side of the table to the bar, where I order a Diet Coke—to go.
Glen has a standing invitation, open to any crew members who aren’t filming, to meet every Saturday for late-night drinks and a meal at the Italian restaurant on board.
It’s a beautiful space—terracotta walls and twinkly lights wrapped around a hanging latticed ceiling and intertwined with faux greenery.
While the kitchen typically closes around 10 PM for guests, it’s kept open late for the Love crew meet-ups.
The bartender slides me the unopened can and I give her a quick wave in thanks. But before I can hop off the stool and bolt, a familiar figure appears next to me.
“Chloe, babes, I’m so happy to see you here,” Glen’s voice purrs, and I can tell he’s already had a few drinks tonight.
“Oh, hey Glen,” I say as coolly as I can muster while eyeing the exit over his shoulder. I was so close. “Sorry, I know you wanted me to lay low as much as possible, but Sora asked me to come tonight, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt.”
Glen’s eyes widen and he places his hand on my arm. “Oh, it’s totally fine. I haven’t so much as heard someone mention your name. You’re a ghost, Chlo! So, we might be out of the woods for now.”
Ouch. My jaw tightens as I force a smile. Had Glen lost his fucking marbles? Or at least any ounce of self-awareness the robot factory might have programmed him with? Because anyone with even a shred of empathy would know they can’t say something like that without realizing it might be hurtful.
Right?
Maybe it’s the slight beer buzz humming pleasantly throughout my body, or the way Sora looked at me earlier—like she believes in me—that gives me the confidence I’ve been lacking, but I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders as I deliver my next words carefully.
“I’m so glad to hear that,” I say nonchalantly, plucking an invisible fluff off my sleeve like they tell the guys in GQ photoshoots to do, to make them appear more confident.
“Maybe that means you could send me on one of the upcoming excursions this week? It would be nice to get off the ship for once.”
“Oh,” Glen looks surprised. “Why would you want to go on one of the excursions? They’re such a pain in the ass.” He calls over the bartender and orders a drink, then turns back to me, as if considering my question. “I could try, though.”
“Really?” I feel my expression brighten considerably and try to school it back into an aloof stare.
“I’m sure Cameron would appreciate a break from lugging gear all over the city. Let me talk to him, and I’ll get back to you, ’kay?”
I nod, giving him a sincere look. “Thanks, Glen.”
“No problem, hon,” he says airily, thanking the bartender wordlessly as his neon pink drink is placed on the bar. I’m about to stand to leave when Glen turns back to me and says, “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. I heard your dad passed last year. You doing okay?”
I’m taken aback by his words and open my mouth to respond, then snap it shut.
My brows furrow and I wistfully eye the exit again, desperately wanting to escape this conversation.
I could be honest with Glen and tell him that no, I’m not okay, and maybe he would ease up on me a bit.
Or maybe he would pat my arm, give me a pitying smile, tell me how sorry he is… and then never bring it up again.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to be honest when I’m asked this question. I want people to understand the gaping hole my father left in this world when he died; to feel the pain that tears me apart in those quiet moments when I forget he’s gone—when I pick up the phone to call him, then remember…
But I can’t take the look, the one I get from people who have never known loss like that. I can’t take more of their hollow words. Because a minute later, after I’ve just shown them my poor, broken heart, they go right back to whatever it was they were doing, without a second thought.
So, when Glen asks? I tell him, “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Good,” he replies with a smile and a squeeze of my arm. Then he grabs his drink off the bar top. “I’ll see you later.”
As he saunters away toward a gaggle of rowdy producers, I rub at my chest absentmindedly, trying to ease the suffocating sense of loneliness squeezing every part of my body.
Not wanting to spend another minute in the crowded room, I’m finally able to make my escape. But as I stand and turn to grab my can of Diet Coke off the bar, I spot Nolan leaning against the kitchen door, his gaze zeroed in on me and a wry smile lifting the edges of his mouth.
“Hey,” he mouths. Two other chefs are having a heated conversation on either side of him—flailing limbs and all—which he doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to. The energy between us feels loaded, immediately, and I return his smile with a shy one of my own before I mouth back, “Hey.”
He’s so handsome, standing there—broad shoulders relaxed, arms crossed casually over his chest, and the vibrant ink on his skin a sharp contrast against his white apron.
His usual black T-shirt has been replaced with a deep purple dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows in an easy, effortless way that—paired with his dark curls and square-framed glasses—makes me realize that I may just have a thing for a man in uniform.
Especially a flame-resistant one.
Our eyes lock for a beat or two. The way Nolan’s soft gaze doesn’t waver, not even when one of his chefs accidentally bumps him with an elbow, makes me feel so incredibly seen that my breath catches.
It’s terrifying.
And I love it.
“See you later,” I mouth, jerking my head toward the door to indicate that I’m heading out.
He dips his head with a slow blink in acknowledgment, then returns his eyes to mine and winks as he mouths, “See you later.”
Somehow I don’t spontaneously combust from how hot that damn wink was (not a lot of guys could pull that off, honestly), and finally I manage to turn away and walk toward the exit.
But as I push my way through the door and into the cool corridor beyond, I sneak a glance back at Nolan to find him still watching me.
Like I’m the most interesting thing on the whole damn ship.