Chapter 33
HOUSTON, WE HAVE A NOLAN
RORIE
Shall I grace you with another exclusive selfie of my elbow?
Oh, thank God. I was worried I’d never see the elusive wenis again.
What’s next? A scandalous shot of your kneecap?
I don’t know if I’m prepared for this level of intimacy.
You joke, but I’ve got a whole folder of body part close-ups.
Next stop: my slightly asymmetrical big toe. You’ve been warned.
It’s a shame you’re wasting all that talent on mac and cheese taste-testing when your true calling is clearly avant-garde photography.
The world just isn’t ready for my abstract elbow era.
Facts.
Side Bar…what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ordered on the menu just to say you tried it?
Octopus and foie gras…mainly for the aesthetic.
Interesting. That’s the opposite of what I expected.
I’m full of surprises.
That you are.
Tell me the one meal that could fix your whole day?
My God, what is with the weird food questions?
I’m curious
Grilled cheese and tomato soup.
The real kind. Not that watery canned nonsense.
Ahh, you’re a classic. Nostalgic.
Let me guess—childhood favorite?
Maybe.
That’s a yes.
My mom used to make it for me growing up.
That’s nice. She sounds like a good mom.
She was. It was kind of our thing. On cold days. Long days. Basically any day, especially ones that needed a reset.
I get that. Everyone needs a reset meal. For me it’s peanut butter on toast. Judge all you want.
Absolutely judging.
But also… respectable.
I’m adding grilled cheese and tomato soup to my list. For science.
And I expect a full review. With photos.
Deal. No promises on presentation. I’m told my cheese melting skills are subpar.
The suitcase gapes open on my bed, a colorful swirl of indecision spilling out of it. Bikinis, sarongs, linen pants, dress pants, work dresses, sundresses, heels, flats, even a floppy sun hat I bought years ago but never had the guts to wear.
What does one even wear to a high-stakes pitch event disguised as paradise? Professional yet relaxed? Chic but not overdone?
I’m overthinking it. And being ridiculous. The whole thing has my stomach twisted in knots.
Except… it’s not solely the event that’s doing the twisting.
The real for my gastric issues is because it’s been weeks. Three to be exact. Twenty plus days since Nolan Rhodes sent me a galaxy, then vanished from my life like he was never in it.
And every single day since, I’ve thought about him.
I’ve told myself I shouldn’t. That it was nothing. A moment. A misstep. A detour I should have never taken.
The truth is, I haven’t gone a single day without hoping I’ll bump into him at a networking thing, or glance across the room at happy hour and find that infuriating smirk aimed at me.
I’ve even started frequenting Muncan’s a little too often. Now I have enough frozen steaks and seasonal sausage in my freezer to start a carnivore podcast. Pretty sure the butcher knows my cholesterol score better than my doctor.
But I haven’t seen him. Haven’t run into him. Haven’t heard a thing.
Not a word. Not an email. Not a breadcrumb in the digital void.
Just silence.
Which, is what he wanted. Brakes applied. Hard. Well, slammed, really.
Fine.
Besides, I should be excited. This trip could change everything for The Laurel Group. For me.
An exclusive island event, A-list guest list, the biggest brands in the game, and a chance to prove we deserve to sit at the damn table. To grow our own big, swinging dick. As Jeremy would say.
So why does it feel like something important got left behind?
My phone buzzes. Carl.
You packed yet, overachiever?
Or are you stress-eating trail mix and panic-rolling pantsuits?
A slow smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Somehow, after all the emotional whiplash that followed Nolan, Carl stayed.
I never gave him the story. Not the whole thing. Not the heart-hammering truth. I’m better at being his witty, perfectly composed therapist from the safe side of a screen.
It’s cowardly. Especially after everything he’s shared with me—Chloe, the fallout, even the girl he hooked up.
I trust him. I do. But some part of me didn’t want to risk becoming small in his eyes. I didn’t want to be another story he carries. Another girl tangled up in a man who made her feel too much too soon.
So I kept it. Guarded it.
Felt easier to stay curated. Safe. Undamaged. Because the truth is raw. And a little ugly.
I don’t want to be something less than what I am in his eyes. Which is his beloved Textually Frustrated.
But I did tell him about Quinn. About how he walked away after my dad died. How he didn’t just leave me, he left when staying meant the most.
Carl’s reply had come back almost immediately: What’s his address? I just want to talk.
Then: With my fists.
And then, a beat later: Do you think sells glitter brass knuckles? I want him to suffer, but in a fabulous way.
I’d laughed harder than I expected to. Carl didn’t ask for details. He didn’t pry. He just offered blind loyalty and stylish violence.
And weirdly that felt like more comfort than anyone had managed to give me in a long time.
He also knows I have a work trip coming up for that career-changing opportunity I landed. Code for: a tropical hellscape of forced networking and suppressed rage in business casual.
Needless to say, over the last few weeks, our texting has increased. At first, it was the occasional chat. A meme. A joke. A picture of fries.
But then it became every day.
We talk about everything. And nothing. A good morning here, a sarcastic gif there. A running bit about how doing dishes is a social construct. A passionate debate about whether or not soup counts as a meal.
Bad days. Big dreams. Fears. Fries.
Since he accidentally texted me, I’ve learned that his least favorite word is “moist.” Mine is “bulbous.”
He watches concerts on YouTube for hours on end. And I hate the sound of the bathroom fan. Makes my skin crawl.
He also sends me links to ridiculous gifs and asks about my day before I’ve even had coffee.
He’s a mystery. He’s safe. Not truly real. Or isn’t supposed to be.
But he is.
And never asks for anything. Never crosses a line. And that’s what makes it so easy to talk to him.
We keep the mystery alive, not out of fear, but self-preservation. We exist in this strangely comforting friend zone that feels safe.
It’s not flirty. Not really.
But it’s not not either. I get a bit weird when it is. But Carl always eases back.
I don’t know who he is. But I know how he texts when he’s in a bad mood. Clipped.
I know what shows he watches to decompress. Corporate dramas, and anything with subtitles.
I know the weird way he organizes his grocery list. Pantry to fridge.
I know how he deflects when he’s hurting—but who doesn’t—and how he always, always checks in when I’m quiet.
And yeah…
It’s been nice.
Having someone to talk to, literally about everything.
I tap out a reply.
I’ve packed and repacked three times. My suits are judging me. My shoes are mutinying. And yes, I ate all the trail mix.
Wherever you’re going, whatever you’re doing, you’re going to kill it. The suits are just jealous of your power.
I’m putting that on a tote bag.
I’ll buy ten. And matching mugs.
It’s dumb. It’s small. It’s everything.
And it keeps me from drowning in the ache of a man who kissed me like I mattered then walked away like I didn’t.
#StoryOfMyLife
I set the phone aside and zip the suitcase closed, sealing in my clothes, my nerves, and every feeling I don’t want to carry with me.
My carry on sits half-packed on my bed, mocking me with its disorganization. My brain won’t shut up long enough to finish the task. I try to distract myself by checking off to-do lists, mentally rehearsing my pitch, but nothing sticks. I need a break. Something mindless.
So I open my email.
The first few are work junk, the usual requests for files or confirmations or pitch prep reminders. And then–
Shelby Davidson
Subject: Finalized Itinerary – Cross Island Pitchpocalypse.
I click.
The PDF opens slow, like it knows what’s coming. Like it’s trying to cushion the blow.
There it is.
A list of every major player attending. Three names I recognize, two I don’t.
But one I definitely do.
His name makes my palms sweat. And for some reason, I click Big Stream’s company link, launching the firm profile. I’m poking a bruise.
There he is.
Nolan “Asshole I Somehow Still Want” Rhodes. Better known as Chief Creative Officer for Big Stream Marketing.
Black suit. Clean lines. Smirk that could melt steel.
And those fucking glasses.
Sleek, black-rimmed, perched on the bridge of his too-perfect nose. They have no idea the damage they’re doing to the female population.
I close the laptop with a snap just to get a grip.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve kissed this man. Felt his fingers inside me. His mouth on my neck. I’ve ground against him in a public bathroom like some unholy thirst demon.
And now I’m sitting here stalking his company website, pretending I didn’t ride that man’s thigh into another plane of existence.
I open the laptop again. This is fine. Totally fine. Just… professional research.
That’s what I tell myself as I scroll through the blog posts. They’re clever, creative, like everything else he touches. Most of them don’t have him in them. Just his work. His ideas. His vision.
Until I hit something older. Buried a little deeper. From last year.
A photo captioned: Nolan Rhodes enjoying the Christmas party with his girlfriend, Chloe Prescott.
I stop breathing. She’s beautiful. Movie star beautiful. With legs for days and expensive hair that probably has its own agent. But the smile is brittle. Posed.
Still—there’s a familiarity to that caption. The name clangs around in my brain.
Chloe Prescott.
Chloe.
Chloe?
Oh, fuck. Chloe!
I click back to my messages. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll some more.
There.
Jackson?! His dirty dick is a perfect match for that rank ass pussy of yours, Chloe. Enjoy!
My stomach flips.
Carl texted her name.
Carl and Chloe.