Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
SPIDERWEBS — NO DOUBT
Even though I find myself admiring his excellent song choice, I’m slightly concerned by the fact that Nolan’s music is leaning much more angsty right now than it usually does, and the familiar buzz of nervousness rears its head as I wonder how angry he is with me.
In his shoes, I’d be furious. Especially considering how I blew him off after snapping at him.
It takes me a few moments, but I finally work up the courage to knock, my heart fluttering violently against my ribs like a bird trying to flee its cage.
“Yeah?” Nolan calls out from inside the office. The door remains closed, but he lowers the volume slightly so his voice isn’t lost to the music.
“Um…Nolan?” I call out, feeling weird about yelling in the hallway. I want him to hear me, not the rest of the kitchen staff. “Can I come in?”
The song stops abruptly and, for a moment, there’s no response.
I stare awkwardly at a spot near the handle where the paint is chipping away and contemplate knocking again.
Or maybe I should assume he’s not opening the door because he doesn’t want to talk to me and just…
leave. Except that’s not what I want to do.
I want to make things right with him. Just as I’m about to raise my hand again, the door swings open and relief washes over me.
Nolan is settling back at his desk, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose as he alternates between studying a small Moleskine and a larger, spiral-bound notebook.
I peek at what’s written on the pages of the smaller book and notice multicolored sketches of miniature fruits and vegetables with curly, whimsical leaves drawn in the margins.
“I thought you couldn’t draw,” I mumble apprehensively, hoping he might tear his gaze away from what he’s working on to look at me.
I want his soft, warm eyes to meet mine.
But he doesn’t budge. And I realize what a stupid thing that was to say—so accusatory. Like, hey, those are great drawings, but you said you suck, so what gives?
“A friend drew them,” he mutters, eyes focused on the notes he’s copying from one book to the other.
“Oh,” is all I can manage as I step into the office, shutting the door gently behind me. “They’re…nice.”
I am such an imbecile.
“Mhmm,” he hums, as if unperturbed. I’m at a loss for words. How do I transition into an apology after that?
I bite the inside of my cheek. Nolan isn’t giving me much to work with. Actually, he’s giving me exactly nothing to work with. I decide it’s better to be direct than to beat around the bush. I clear my throat.
“Think we could talk?” I ask, hopeful yet firm.
“Sure,” he offers. “Go ahead.”
Once again, Nolan is a near-statue. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t still his hand or cease writing. Annoyance flares in my chest. I had fully been expecting anger or frustration from him, at least—even prickly passive-aggressiveness or the silent treatment would be better. I could work with that.
But this disinterest? It’s absolutely infuriating.
“Nolan, can you… Please, will you look at me?” My tone is indignant, but I try to neutralize it, reminding myself why I’m here—to apologize for being a jerk.
Only…now he’s the one acting like a jerk.
Closing both notebooks and carefully stacking them, one on top of the other, Nolan leans back in his chair and swivels to fully face me.
In one smooth motion, he sets his glasses down on the desk beside him and then crosses his arms over his broad chest, meeting my gaze for the first time since I entered his office.
It’s then that I notice the hurt in his eyes, and how his dark brows are pressed together. My heart stutters.
“You’re not mad,” I blurt out. Suddenly, I understand—he hadn’t been acting indifferently toward me out of anger.
It had been out of sadness. Disappointment.
Maybe even a bit of embarrassment or frustration.
But not anger. That was my natural response to these sorts of things. But it wasn’t Nolan’s.
“No?” he says, clearly a little confused. The hurt is still there, but as his brows lower at me, I realize I’ve been expecting the worst from a man who has never given me any reason to.
“Why not?” I ask, genuine curiosity winning out over my need to make things right as quickly as possible.
He sighs and searches my face.
“Do you want me to be angry, Chloe?”
“No,” I say quickly.
Nolan rubs a hand along his jaw.
“I’m not mad at you because…I like you. A stupid amount.
” A flicker of warmth returns to his gaze, and the little ache that I didn’t realize was sitting heavy in my chest starts to dissipate.
“But I am hurt. I know I can be an idiot sometimes, and I didn’t read the room.
But the way you left things between us… I didn’t even get the chance to work things out with you—and I wanted to. ”
“I know. I’m so sorry, Nolan,” I whisper, holding his gaze steady.
He stands, crossing the small space to close any distance that still exists between us.
Though his normally bright gaze feels guarded, he places a gentle hand on my arm.
“The way I snapped… The things I said… I didn’t mean them.
I should have stayed and apologized right there.
I knew it the moment I walked out the door. ”
“I know,” he replies, his voice gruff.
“I thought…I thought you were making fun of me,” I admit. “I was already feeling really vulnerable, and when you called me out for making up excuses to see you…I was embarrassed. I felt like a lovesick teenager.”
He lets out a quiet laugh at that, and I duck my head sheepishly.
“Chloe, I’m not laughing at you. And I wasn’t mocking you, either,” Nolan murmurs, reaching out to gently tip my chin up so our eyes can meet again.
“I love the way we can be playful with one another. And if I take things too far, just tell me. I’m a tough guy, I’ll survive if my joke isn’t funny.
But I never want, or mean, to hurt you.”
He flashes me a warm, absolutely heartbreaking smile, and I practically melt. Kyla was right: Nolan Braddock is a living, breathing green flag.
“Plus,” he adds, “if anyone here is a lovesick teenager, it’s me.”
“You?” I sputter.
“Do you know how many times I’ve left the kitchen and ‘gone for some air’ just hoping to catch sight of you filming around the ship?” he asks earnestly, like it isn’t a rhetorical question. Still, I answer.
“Um…no?” My cheeks are burning as I imagine him casually strolling the deck, pretending to be going for a walk, when really he’s looking for me.
“Yeah, well…many times. Do you know how expressive your face is when you’re behind the camera?
It’s like you’re experiencing everything completely unfiltered.
You’re smiling and frowning, sometimes laughing or smirking.
Most people mask those expressions in the moment—and I know you do it, too, when you don’t have the camera to hide behind.
But when you do, you’re just…you. It’s beautiful. ”
I don’t know what to say. All I can do is groan and bury my face in my hands to hide the idiotic smile plastered across my burning face.
No one has ever seen me the way Nolan has.
The camera has always been my shield, especially the more I was told it’s where I belong.
But for some reason, it doesn’t feel like a shield with him.
Nolan steps closer and tugs my hands away from my face, forcing me to look up at him. I swallow as I take in the way his gaze has darkened, how his long eyelashes fan across his skin, lining heavy lids and pupils blown wide.
Without giving myself the opportunity to change my mind, I reach up to gently brush my fingers against Nolan’s cheek before bringing them to rest at the back of his neck, tangling in his gentle curls.
I rise up onto my toes until we’re face to face.
And then I do something that feels somehow more vulnerable than kissing.
I tilt my head, rest my forehead against his, and close my eyes.
I feel his breath hitch, his hands gently curling around my hips. One small movement and our lips would be touching—but I don’t want to move. For the first time in a very long time, I feel safe. I’m at ease in his firm embrace and drunk on the comfort that has long since disappeared from my life.
We stay like that for a few beats, and then his hand begins to travel, his fingers tracing my spine up, up, up until they lace through my hair.
Nolan’s head drops to my shoulder, just above the hem of my shirt.
His nose grazes the sensitive skin, and his lips touch a gentle kiss just under my chin.
Then another—this time along my jaw—and another, his hands tangling further in my curls as he walks me backward, toward the closed door.
His kisses start out tender, but as each one presses into my skin, I feel the tension begin to pull tight.
A quiet whimper escapes me, but it’s cut short as his mouth finds mine.
His lips are warm—moving gently, lightly, at first, and then deeper.
Urgent, but not greedy. Direct, but not rough.
His scent—citrus and cinnamon—grounds me, and I tighten my arms around his neck, one hand cradling the back of his head, my fingers weaving into his hair.
I kiss him back desperately, almost needy, like I’ve been lost, parched in the desert for years and his genuine kindness and optimism have just come into view like a whole damn oasis.
He kisses me deeper, pulls me in tighter, and a need blossoms in my core while another aches in my chest. His hand grasps tightly just above my hip, fingers grazing just under my shirt.
Nolan’s holding back, I can tell. But his restraint is balanced on a knife’s edge, and I know that at any moment he will let go.
I want him to. I want to disappear into him. I want him to devour me.
There’s nothing I want more than to fall into this moment completely.
A flash of Nolan and me on his desk, doing things we probably shouldn’t be doing just a few feet away from where food is prepared, excites me, but also snaps me back to reality.
I suddenly remember why I’m here, why I snapped, and why I have to make up with him before getting off the ship.
Because I do have to get off the ship, that is.
To find Molly, to fix things with her. To fix my career.
I pull away, breathless, my hand on his chest as I try to right myself and remember how to talk.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes search my face, concern etching his brow.
“I want nothing more than to keep doing what we’re doing…but I have to go.”
“Does this have something to do with what was going on in your room when I came by?” He leans back, putting some distance between the two of us, but doesn’t let go of me.
“I kind of managed to…lose…one of the contestants,” I admit, glancing up at him with a half-hearted smirk. His brows lift higher in surprise, and his mouth, still swollen from our kiss, drops open slightly.
“Now I understand why everyone was so angry.”
“I know where she’s going. I just have to follow her, convince her to come back to the ship, and then make it back before we leave port tomorrow night.”
“Where do you have to go?”
“That’s the thing…I know it’s on the Amalfi Coast, but I just don’t know where.” I slide the photograph out of my pocket and hand it to him. He drops his hand from my hip and turns to snatch his glasses from the desk, sliding them on so he can study the picture.
“The Cathedral of St. Andrew,” he says, finally.
“You know it?”
“Yeah, it’s famous.” His gaze flicks up to mine and then back down to the photograph. “You’re not going alone, are you?”
“That was the plan,” I say with a shrug.
“Uh, no.” He gives me a disapproving look. It’s the same one he gave me when he realized I hadn’t included breakfast on my menu card. “I’ll take you.”
“What? No, no—you can’t just leave, you have a job here, Nolan,” I argue, but he’s already darting around the cramped office, throwing a few things in a small backpack and pulling off his white jacket, replacing it with a black hoodie.
“It’s not just a job, Chloe,” he says, looking at me over the frame of his glasses as he slips his notebook into the bag. “We have each other’s backs. Shayla can keep things moving while I’m gone.”
“Are you sure?” I ask nervously. I don’t want him to do something that will get him in trouble. I can’t deny, though, that the idea of not having to do this alone is comforting. It’s made better by the fact that it’s Nolan with whom I’ll be spending the next twenty-four hours driving across Italy.
“Of course I’m sure.” He swings the backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s go get your gal.”