Chapter 16 Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing
SIXTEEN
I WANT YOU — SAVAGE GARDEN
Unsurprisingly, Nolan’s dinner is incredible.
The steaks are cooked perfectly—juicy, with a slightly charred outer crust, and just the right amount of brine to elevate the rich cut of meat. The mushrooms are a nice touch, too, swimming in a silky garlic butter. I want to lick the plate clean.
Something tells me that’s not exactly “first date” behavior, though.
Our conversation while we eat is less intense than our pre-dinner talk. I ask him more about his family, and he tells me that it’s just his mom and stepdad, no siblings. Then he prods me with a few questions about my work, which I sort of shrug off.
“You’re telling me that this isn’t an exciting job?” Nolan asks earnestly around a mouthful of steak.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t exciting,” I reply, stabbing a mushroom with my fork. “The subject matter is just not what I’m interested in filming.”
“No? I feel like it would be fascinating. It’s basically sociology and anthropology, right? Group dynamics, identity, conflict resolution…I imagine it’s similar to filming a nature documentary. You know, like observing a gorilla troop in real time.”
I burst out laughing because, surprisingly, he’s kind of bang on.
“The only difference is that we don’t give gorillas tequila so they’ll be more susceptible to the suggestion of starting a fight over a potential mate,” I say with a smirk, and Nolan chuckles.
“Good point. We have more morality than stooping to getting monkeys drunk, right?”
Once we’ve finished eating, Nolan clears our plates and asks if I want to join him back in the kitchen while he shapes the pains au chocolat he’s already prepared for the next day.
I agree, but only if he lets me film him.
My footage from earlier was fine, but after watching Nolan cook our dinner, I can tell that he has a certain level of finesse that will look great on camera.
Also, the black dress shirt is really doing his biceps justice, and I sort of want a reason to stare at them without feeling like I’m gawking. Even though I totally am.
Although he’s hesitant, citing a lack of “stage presence,” Nolan eventually concedes, as long as I let him approve the footage before I submit it.
He moves us to an adjacent empty kitchen, now that dinner service is over and the other cooks have cleared out.
While he sets up his workspace I do a quick-and-dirty job of setting up the scene—a panel light balanced precariously on a shelf above Nolan to illuminate what he’s doing, and my camera resting on a tripod just parallel to the counter.
I plan to focus on his hands first, and we’ll talk while he works.
After getting B-roll footage of him pulling the dough out of the fridge and walking me through the 16-hour process to actually make the dough, I decide that now would be a good time for the interview, while he’s focused on shaping it.
Except, it turns out, that’s the worst idea ever.
“So, what are you making right now?” I ask.
Nolan freezes and clears his throat nervously. I notice his foot starts to tap as he leans forward onto his hands. He wasn’t kidding; he really is camera-shy.
He glances at me. Then at the camera. Then back at me.
“It’s okay—just talk. I’m only filming your hands right now, not your face, and the microphone will catch whatever you say.” I point to the tiny lavalier mic I’ve clipped to his shirt. “Just like we’re having a conversation.”
“Alright,” he says gruffly, drawing out the syllables in a way that makes me shiver.
“Well, right now I’ve got my dough ready and am about to add the small pieces of chocolate at one end, then tightly roll the dough up around the chocolate.
This is what gives them their name: pain au chocolat.
Which is a chocolate croissant, if you don’t speak French.
Which I don’t, because…I’m…not French.” He looks at me and screws up his face in consternation, one brow arched questioningly.
I stifle a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand to keep from losing it.
“Uh-huh…okay, go on.”
“Don’t laugh at me,” Nolan hisses playfully, tossing a pinch of flour my way while laughter rolls out of me in silent waves.
“I’m not, I promise!” I manage through giggles.
“I don’t reward bad behavior, Chloe. Another peep and you’re not getting any of these chocolate croissants.”
“You mean pains au chocolat,” I try to deadpan, but I’m laughing too hard, and my French accent comes out garbled.
“Yes, but as I already said…I’m not French.”
For a minute, everything feels upside down—like when you’re so sleep-deprived that even the blandest joke can take on a bizarre—and, ultimately, hilarious—connotation, just with the way it’s said.
We both look at each other, stone-faced, for a beat, then erupt into raucous laughter. Nolan doubles over, and I have to cross my legs tightly so I don’t pee myself.
It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed like that—truly untethered from the stresses of my life. I’m so focused on this moment, here with Nolan, that I can barely even remember why I’ve been so uptight lately.
Nolan’s laughter finally dies down, and I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, a slight smile still tugging at my lips.
“Okay, okay—I’m good. You good?”
“I’m good,” Nolan says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Where were we?”
“Like I was saying…I’m adding the chocolate to the dough,” Nolan explains, moving back to his workspace. “Then I’m going to roll it up and I’ll pop the tray in the fridge so it can go right into the oven first thing in the morning.”
Nolan seems to get more comfortable as he talks, relaxing into the rhythm of his hands. Cutting the dough, placing the chocolate, then rolling. And repeat. It’s mesmerizing.
But—honestly? So is he.
The muscles of his tattooed forearms flex with each new cut and roll, and I sneak a peek at the rest of his body.
His physique reminds me of the swimmers I knew in college; all lean, firm muscle and defined edges.
Not skinny, but also not in the same neighborhood as the bulky gym bros out on the Love deck.
I’ve never really had a type, exactly. Each new guy I dated looked very different from the last. I had dated men taller and shorter than me. Men who were a few years younger, and one who was about a decade older. None of those things are what drew me to them, though.
The one common trait that I’ve always found attractive is a sense of humor.
I can’t help it—I love a guy who can make me laugh.
The only problem was that most of the funny men I fell for also had a tendency to be mean.
Suddenly, those witty remarks and clever quips had sharp edges to them, edges that ended up cutting me in unexpected ways.
It’s part of why I haven’t had a real relationship in a long time—my self-esteem is still in tatters from the last asshole.
Things with Nolan seem different, though. Our banter doesn’t feel pretentious; it feels lived-in. Like we’ve done this for years. And I’ve never felt that he has any ill intentions.
Still, I’m nervous around him.
Not because he’s the kind of funny that feels mean, but because I’ve been hurt so many times before that I’m not exactly sure if I trust myself to know when I’m in on the joke, and when I am the joke.
“Over dinner, you mentioned this was your favorite thing to bake. Why?” I ask quietly, careful not to break his concentration.
“I think because the recipe is simple, but the pastry itself is extremely difficult to make, and so time consuming. But the more you do it, the better you get at it. And the result?” He turns to look at me directly, the timbre of his voice dropping lower. “Perfection.”
I get the feeling he isn’t talking about croissants anymore.
“What’s your favorite pastry?” he asks, his gaze still locked with mine. I think about it for a beat, trying to ignore the fluttering in my belly again.
“That’s a really hard question. I mean—can I say all of them?”
Nolan throws his head back and guffaws, then looks back at me. “Absolutely, you can.”
His smile is so genuine and kindhearted that my heart squeezes. I feel like I could say anything to him and he’d find it delightful one way or another.
“But. If someone were to make you your favorite pastry…which one would it be?”
I’m not surprised by this question, especially not coming from him, but it doesn’t make my cheeks heat any less. I mean, the guy has been feeding me since the first day on the ship.
“First breakfast, then dinner, now dessert?” I say playfully.
He turns to lean his hip against the counter and folds his arms over his chest, jostling the mic.
“Yeah, so what?”
“So…a girl might start to wonder what your intentions are.”
“I think they’re pretty clear, Chloe,” he says, his voice low and sultry. The playful edge is still there, but it’s layered with something else—something like desire.
I swallow.
Nolan is so incredibly clear in his conviction that I don’t have to second-guess what he means. I know exactly what his intentions are—they’re written all over his face—and it’s startling to my psyche to be faced with a man who is so completely open and honest with me.
It’s also terrifying. Because I don’t have my doubts to hide behind, like I have in past relationships.
I clear my throat and look away, finally unable to hold Nolan’s heated gaze any longer.
“You bumped your lav mic,” I mumble, maneuvering around the camera to come stand in front of him. “Here, let me fix it.”
My heart is racing as I reach up to Nolan’s collar to adjust his mic. It’s a flimsy excuse to get closer to him, but I’m not like Nolan—being vulnerable and putting what I want out there in plain sight is not how I’ve ever done things.