Chapter 17 Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing #2
“I guess we lost,” she says, her tone more bored than annoyed. But as she settles into a seat at the table, I catch her hand wandering to her scalp, where she picks at it for a few seconds before dropping her hand to her lap.
Interesting. She’s anxious about something.
I shrug it off when I can’t deduce a reason why—after all, she’s sitting on a beach in Barcelona next to a hot dude while being served a platter of authentic pintxos, croquetas, and torreznos, along with a few other small plates I don’t recognize.
After filming a short scene where the contestants mingle and enjoy their reward, Demi pulls Molly, Duncan, and me aside to film a quick confessional.
I set up the shot on the sidewalk near a bank of bushes that border the beach, with the sand and tourists as a backdrop.
The contrasting tropical green of the foliage and creamy white sand are so aesthetically pleasing that I preen internally at my perfectly composed shot.
“Alright, Molly, Duncan—that was quite the race,” Demi says, taking her place next to the tripod and camera. I watch the two in the pop-out viewfinder. “Going into this activity, what were you thinking?”
“I totally thought we would win, Demi,” Duncan says. She lets out a frustrated huff that only I can hear.
“Can you say that again, but leave my name out?” Demi asks in a faux-friendly tone that I now know is her Producer Voice.
“Oh, right. Uh…” Duncan stumbles over his words, clearly flustered, but Molly puts her hand on his arm.
“We really thought we would win. Duncan has done five marathons in the past ten years, and a few half-marathons too, if I remember correctly. Right, babe?”
Duncan nods.
“So, you figured you had this one in the bag?”
“We totally thought we had this one in the bag,” Molly parrots, and Demi smirks.
Duncan and Molly yammer on about the activity for another ten minutes or so, and then Demi wraps them, immediately stalking off toward the group without waiting for any of us.
“She’s cranky,” Molly snarks, and I can’t help it—I let out a soft laugh.
She turns to me, a flash of surprise on her face that quickly dissolves back into her regular disdainful glare.
It reminds me so much of the look she used to give her parents whenever I was over at her house in high school: pure hatred.
But that was always a distraction from the real emotion she was grappling with: sadness. Between this and noticing her picking earlier, I’m starting to get the feeling that something is going on with Molly behind the scenes that she isn’t talking about.
I mean, not that she would talk to me about it.
Although…I guess there’s no one here she would talk to about anything that is bothering her.
Taking a chance, I reach out and lightly grasp her wrist.
“Hey, you good?” I ask, my expression as neutral as I can make it. She pulls her hand back as if I’ve scalded her, and I let go immediately. Scanning my face, Molly’s eyes flick back and forth, as if she’s trying to determine whether my question is a trap.
“Uh…yeah?” she says, one brow raised in something between curiosity and confusion. Duncan, who had been briefly distracted by a passerby’s dog (I mean, really, this guy just has no clue what is going on at any given moment), places his hand on her shoulder.
“Ready to go, babe-a-licious?”
Molly and I cringe simultaneously.
“I’ll meet you back there,” she mutters. He shrugs, then jogs off to where the rest of the contestants are still hanging out. Her eyes drag back to mine. “What do you want?”
“I just wanted to check in,” I explain, unblinking. There’s a depth to our locked gaze that feels real. Like I’ve suddenly breached a wall I’ve been trying to climb for a while now. “You seem…off.”
She blinks and then breaks our gaze, rolling her eyes and throwing her hair over her shoulder.
“I’m fine,” she snaps.
I scoff. “Just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t.” Her gaze is hot with fury when it lands on me again, and I shrink under its intensity. “I’m fine. Everything here? Fine. This whole situation? Also fine.”
“I get it,” I say, holding my hands up in defense, overwhelmed by the sudden shift in demeanor. She stiffens, then looks away again, chewing the inside of her cheek.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” she finally says quietly. “I was drunk. I hope I didn’t break too many of his fucking plates.”
“It’s fine,” I say, thrown by this flash of earnestness after such hostility. I’m getting emotional whiplash. Suddenly, I remember what I had wanted to ask her. “Look…do you mind not saying anything about—”
She snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “Yeah, whatever. Consider it forgotten, if you’ll forget about my little act of klutziness.”
“Sure. What broken plates?” I say with a subtle shrug, and I notice the side of her mouth twitch ever so slightly.
“Right, well—” Molly begins as she steps forward to leave, but she stubs her toe off the blunt end of a broken piece of sidewalk, launching herself into me and pushing me backward.
I think of only a few things as I topple.
Oh, holy shit, what the fuck?
But also: Is Molly Spencer trying to kill me, or is she seriously just this klutzy?
And finally: I’m going to be concussed tonight for my date with Nolan, aren’t I?
Thankfully, my fall is broken by one of the bushes.
And then the camera and tripod fall directly on top of me.
I’m not expecting to see Nolan leaning casually against my stateroom door, as I turn the corner from the elevator area into the crew corridor. My room is halfway down the lengthy hall, almost exactly in the middle of the ship, so I have a long way to go before I get to him.
Fortunately for him, he notices me right away, so I can’t spend my thirty-second walk sneaking a nice, long peek at his tall, lean body and muscled forearms.
Unfortunately for me, that means prolonged and awkward eye contact as I trudge along the carpeting in my sandy shoes, giving him the opportunity to really take in my sweaty, filthy mess of an appearance.
When I get closer, though, I can see him squinting, and I realize he isn’t wearing his glasses.
Which means he doesn’t notice the sad state I’m in until I’m up close.
Only then does he say, “Oh, Chloe—what happened to your, uh…”
“Entire body?” I grumble, picking a leaf out of my hair. He just nods, clearly trying to contain a laugh. “That would be our lovely friend Molly, whom you met last week.”
I rest my tripod on the floor and prop it up against the wall outside my room, then rummage through my bag to find my key card.
“Do I want to know what happened?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Would you believe me if I told you it was actually an accident?”
“Only if you want me to,” he offers, his mouth curving upward and his tone so coy that, for a moment, I forget we’re talking about Molly Spencer and not something else entirely.
“Well, it was an accident,” I mutter. While the petty part of me wants to make it seem like Molly intentionally tried to push me down a hill…she didn’t.
Molly’s always been somewhat clumsy, like her center of gravity is permanently off-balance. The number of times I’ve seen that woman slip, trip, or fall over the span of our friendship—and now nemesis…ship—is simply not natural.
Nolan makes a soft noise of consideration as I finally locate my key card wedged between two batteries and swipe it through the scanner.
I wait half a second for the light to blink green so I can push my way into my cool and—thanks to the maid who takes care of our floor—no longer atrociously messy room.
Only, nothing happens.
I swipe the card again.
Still nada.
“Oh, fuck me,” I burst out, and Nolan’s brows shoot up.
I glance up at him and our eyes lock momentarily—as if each willing the other person to make a crack about my ill-timed colloquialism—but Nolan makes a big show of pursing his lips.
I give him a pointed glare, and he throws his hands up in defense.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Right,” I say, narrowing my eyes, then flicking my gaze back to my still-locked door with a sigh. “I think I’m going to need a little bit of time to get a new key card and get ready.”
“Of course. I mean, I think you look great—but there is a dress code where we’re going, and I don’t think dirt-caked khakis are on the list of approved apparel,” he teases. “Hmm…dirt-caked khakis is actually a great phrase. Sounds like the name of a band, doesn’t it?”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” I say, “but if you are, then yes, it does. But only if that band is country.”
“See, I would say heavy metal.”
“Really? I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree, then,” I retort.
“Actually, you might be on to something. Dirt-Caked Khakis could be the first mainstream heavy metal–country western band.”
“With a female lead singer,” I add.
“Now you’re talking.” He flashes me a confident wink that demolishes my ability to think.
I roll my eyes because it’s all I can manage at the moment, then croak out, “I’m going to head to the front desk. Can I meet you somewhere?”
“Lunar Lounge, top deck. Bring your camera. If you want. Only if you want. I think you’ll like what I have to show you.”
My mouth goes dry at his last sentence because I don’t think he fully understands (a) what he’s just insinuated, and (b) how sexy he sounded when he said it.
I blink approximately fourteen times in a row, trying to decide how I want to answer—because my brain is too tired to come up with anything clever—but the pause seems to give him enough time to realize his mistake, and his eyes go wide.
“Ohhh, shit—oh, no. No, no, that’s not what I meant, I just—” I roll my lips inward, trying to keep my face straight, but Nolan flustered is a sight that I haven’t experienced yet and am thoroughly enjoying.
“Uh-huh.” I quirk a brow suggestively and cross my arms over my chest.
This is too good.
“You know what?” he says, taking a deep breath—as if accepting that what came out of his mouth is exactly what he meant to say.
“Yes. Bring your camera. I want you to film something awesome. Not my johnson. Unless you want to. In which case, we probably need to have a different conversation, because I’m not at all opposed, I just think I should probably know where you’re going to use that kind of footage, and—”
“Nolan,” I interrupt, scrubbing a hand over my face to hide my own blush and the laugh that is threatening to push me over the edge.
“Got it. I’ll see you soon!” he says, smiling brightly, and I notice that there’s no hint of mortification on his face.
This man is going to be my undoing.