Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
RHYTHM IS A DANCER — SNAP!
During the day, the Lunar Lounge’s creamy white walls are unadorned, its shelves are bare, and the music is unassuming. The soft rise and fall of pop favorites covered by indie artists loops on repeat in the daytime, offering guests a reprieve from boisterous pool parties or off-ship excursions.
But more often than not, it’s used by Love crew members. If someone is there, they’re likely taking a time-out to cry, check their phone, or catch a quick nap.
So, I know it well.
Or at least, I thought I did.
I guess I’ve never seen it at night, because this Lunar Lounge—beneath the glittering stars and deep, inky plum of the night sky—has been completely transformed.
What was once a soft and subtle space is now dark, loud, and wild.
The bass of mid-’80s techno music thumps almost belligerently as sweaty bodies writhe on the small dance floor.
On the upper level, which is usually closed off during the day, a stunning crisp white bar stretches around the balcony, with serpentine neon designs flashing and pulsating in blue and purple across the bar top and up the wall, washing the space in an ethereal, shivery glow.
It’s intense, absurd, and completely, unthinkably breathtaking.
Not in the same way the historic architecture of Mediterranean Europe is, but I can appreciate that, similar to other extravagant areas of the ship, whoever designed the unique light features of the Lunar Lounge certainly had vision.
I’m standing, dumbstruck, in the wide-open double doors, scanning the room for a glimpse of Nolan’s tall frame and jet-black hair, when I feel a lingering touch on the small of my back.
Sparks shoot up my spine and I jump, then realize it’s Nolan’s firm body that is pressing into mine, not some drunk ship guest trying to cop a feel.
“It’s something, huh?” Nolan shouts over the music.
“I’ve never seen so much neon,” I shout back.
A man bumps into my shoulder and I pitch forward, losing my balance, but Nolan’s arm snakes around my waist, catching me from falling face-first. I give Nolan an irritated look that says, what’s with that guy?
but I notice his brows are knit in concern, his dark eyes on me. My frustration immediately dissolves.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning in closer until his lips brush my ear. I try to nod, but a shiver cuts it short. I feel the deep rumble of a laugh in his chest, as if he is perfectly aware of the effect he’s having on me. “Are you sure about that?”
Tease, I think to myself. Two can play at that game.
Instead of putting space between us, I lean farther back into his hard chest, arching my back ever so slightly until my ass pushes into his crotch.
His breath hitches, and I smirk.
Gotcha.
“I’m perfect,” I say coyly, twisting my head up to meet his gaze.
The playful edge to his features that I’m used to has been replaced by a sharper, more determined emotion tonight.
I catch his usual scent of cinnamon and citrus, but notice it’s blended with a subtle hint of white tea that I recognize as the ship’s signature scent.
I find myself wondering if he would smell this good with his clothes off, or if it would be muskier, more masculine, and I have to physically shake the thoughts from my head.
Easy, girl, I say to myself.
Well, to my vagina.
I push away from him and turn so we’re face to face. Nolan’s gaze dips to my mouth, then drags slowly down my body, taking in the little black dress that I, by some miracle, managed to pack, just in case an occasion such as this arose.
“You look nice,” he says sincerely.
It’s becoming glaringly obvious to me that I haven’t had a night out in a long time, and haven’t been around a man that I’ve liked this much in even longer. It’s intoxicating. So, when Nolan smiles at me, his face open and eager, I beam without reservation.
“Thanks,” I reply. And I mean it.
“Come on, follow me.” Nolan threads his fingers through mine, leading me through the crowd toward the winding set of stairs.
As we reach the second floor, Nolan squeezes us past a rowdy group of guests to the end of the bar, where two sleek black chairs sit unoccupied, a “Reserved” sign hung over the back of each one.
Without dropping my hand, he removes the sign from each seat and pulls out a chair for me, motioning me toward the one on the very end of the bar so we can almost face each other.
A bartender in a ruffled black dress shirt and with short, tousled hair spots Nolan, gives him a quick nod, then disappears into a room behind the bar.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, glancing between the doorway where the bartender disappeared and Nolan.
“Freddie, one of our best mixologists,” he explains, rapping his knuckles gently on the bar,, as if he can’t sit still. “He’s also a total cunt. Beats me in poker once a month with a few other guys. I swear he makes more off that game than this job.”
I bark out a laugh. Nolan grins smugly at me, and I can’t help but notice how pleased he is when he makes me laugh. It’s cute.
Freddie the bartender reappears, with two tall glasses clutched upside down in one hand and what I recognize as a culinary smoking gun in the other.
“Chef Braddock,” Freddie says in a thick Scottish accent. He places the glasses down on the bar in front of him, then extends his hand toward me. I take it, meeting his blue eyes with an easy grin. “Name’s Freddie.”
“Chloe,” I reply, then add, “I’m with the Love at First Sail crew.”
“Yeah—Nolan’s told me all about you.” His extra emphasis on all gives me the impression that the handsome, grinning idiot seated across from me has been a little less tight-lipped about our flirting than I have.
Not that I have anyone to tell, except for Sora—Kyla still isn’t saying much except for the odd “everything is fine, just super busy applying for jobs!” which, for the record, I don’t believe.
I glance at Nolan, curious whether I should be concerned if the rest of the ship knows about us or not, but he just shrugs.
“Right,” I snort, my attention cutting from Nolan back to Freddie. “Well, whatever he’s said, don’t believe him. He’s a liar.”
“Don’t I know it.” Freddie beams at me as he flips the champagne glasses over and sets up the smoking gun. “The man’s a right arse, isn’t he?”
“Hey, I’m right here,” Nolan cuts in. “Just do the job I’m paying you for, Freddie, before I—”
Freddie guffaws. “You don’t pay me, shithead! Shayla does.”
Nolan and Freddie begin to bicker, their accents becoming too thick for me to comprehend as the debate grows heated. I realize I’m half-squinting, head cocked to the side, as I try to understand their banter as the beat of some trance song I don’t recognize drones on in the background.
It’s a tad overstimulating.
“You know, I can leave you two to enjoy this date together, if you’d prefer. I have an early morning,” I interject, placing my palms on the bar and lifting myself out of the chair as if to leave.
Nolan and Freddie immediately shut their mouths, and Nolan touches my arm momentarily. “Don’t judge me by the company I keep.”
I lower myself back into the chair. “Alright, fine.”
“So, like I said,” Freddie begins, “Nolan told me all about you. Wanted me to show you some of the more interesting cocktails on our menu. Said you might want to film it?”
It’s then that Nolan notices I haven’t brought my camera with me. “I guess I wasn’t very convincing, was I?” he teases gently.
I chuckle and shake my head as I pull a small mirrorless camera from my clutch. “I didn’t think I’d need the big lens tonight for what you wanted to show me…”
Nolan clutches at his heart like he’s been shot. “Ouch, you wound me.”
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that,” Freddie remarks.
“I just didn’t want to carry around a heavy camera tonight,” I admit, leaning in closer to Nolan. “My back’s been killing me the past few days.”
His face falls.
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t even think… Of course, that’s totally fair.”
Suddenly, it feels like Nolan is holding back, like he’s a little distant.
I’m not sure if it’s because Freddie is here, or if he’s upset, but it feels like the tension that’s been pulled taut between us all night just unspools completely.
I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye and notice his mouth is slightly downturned.
Not quite a frown, or a grimace—but definitely somewhere in that ballpark.
Over the next hour, Freddie walks us through how to craft several of the Gemstone’s signature cocktails, including a smoky whiskey sour called a Mixed Signals and an espresso chocolate martini that Freddie claims doesn’t have a fancy name.
I insist he calls it The Chloe from now on, which earns me a tight-lipped smile, but not a laugh, from Nolan.
Our mixology lesson ends with a tasting of the Queen’s Gemstone, a sparkling emerald cocktail that Freddie says he can’t share the recipe for but would be happy to make me anytime.
We didn’t drink all of what Freddie made us, just a few sips of each, as Nolan and I both agreed we have to be functional in the morning.
But I must have drunk more than I can handle, because my lips feel loose.
After Nolan leads me out of the Lunar Lounge and down to the Lido deck, away from the thumping music, I waste no time in pulling him to a stop, whirling so I’m in front of him and he understands that I mean business.
At this point, it’s clear that I’m more than a little tipsy.
“What’s going on, Melon Man?”
Oops—did I say that last part out loud?
“Melon…man?” He mimics my stance, but his is ironic, and the corner of his mouth curves upward ever so slightly at the reveal of my secret nickname for him.
“Nolan,” I correct myself. “What’s going on, Nolan?”
“What do you mean?”
There’s a flash of something pained in his eyes, and I waggle a finger at his face. “There! You just had this, this…expression. And you keep acting strange.”