“Nice to see you again,” I murmur politely.
“Y’all know each other?” Mama Shayla asks, as she looks back and forth between the two of us in surprise.
“Ah, yes—Chloe, here? Well, she and I go way back,” Nolan says, his tone so sincere that evenI’ma little convinced we didn’t just meet yesterday. “She’s not exactly fond of fruit, though, so be careful around her.”
Mama Shayla just shakes her head good-naturedly.
“Whatever you say, Chef,” she responds, clearly confused but entirely unbothered, as if this kind of playful banter is just another day at the office for her.
I shift my gaze back to Nolan and notice that his eyes are still locked on me, unflinching. My stomach flutters. Eye contact has never been easy for me. It always leaves me feeling too vulnerable, too exposed. So, you can imagine how sustained eye contact with a tall, tattooed man, whose smile is like concentrated sunshine, might make me shiver.
My gaze drops to my feet.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to…whatever this reunion is,” Mama Shayla says, clearing her throat. “It was nice to meet you, Chloe. I hope to see you around again real soon.”
I look up sharply, but before I can beg her to stay, and to not leave me alone with Nolan, who isstilllooking at me…she’s gone.
And so, apparently, is my ability to speak. I blink at him stupidly.
“So, what can I do for you?” Nolan asks, apparently realizing I’m not going to say anything. Resting his hands, one on top of the other, on his stomach, he leans back in his worn office chair. I take in the confident way he sits, but also the subtle hint of laugh lines creasing the corners of his warm brown eyes, shadowed by long, delicate lashes. His skin is slightly bronzed, without a single visible tan line, which tells me he’s never lived far from the sun’s rays, and his dense beard is neatly trimmed. He’s handsome, in the “tall and dark” way—but it’s his smile that really makes my breath catch.
“I have the production crew’s food orders for this week,” I manage to say, holding up the thin stack of paper and giving it an awkward little wave as I take a hesitant step into his office. “I was asked to drop them off at the main culinary office. I’m supposed to meet with Chef Braddock…is that you?”
He smiles again, this one more polite, and only a little less breathtaking.
“The one and only.” At this, he stands and gently plucks the papers from my waiting hand, his fingers brushing mine and sending a shiver down my arm. Nolan pulls out a pair of glasses from a desk drawer and sifts through the menus, nodding absentmindedly as he takes in who has ordered what. He stops at the end of the stack and pauses, then looks up at me over the rim of his glasses.
“You didn’t submit one?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t really like breakfast. And I’m out of my room before it says the delivery service starts, so I figured I’d just grab whatever’s left over at the buffet at the end of the night.”
That was what I did during my first gig onLove at First Sail. It was easy, and I didn’t have to worry about food sitting out anywhere or getting forgotten. But I realize now that things might have changed since the last time I worked on the ship. Maybe the rules on board are stricter now.
I probably should have confirmed before tossing my menu in the garbage last night.
Thankfully, I also packed a literal suitcase full of snacks—protein bars, chips, granola, you name it. I’ve basically smuggled an entire pantry on board, with every intention of nibbling my way across the Mediterranean Sea and enjoying real food whenever I have the chance to get off the ship and find a meal in port.
“You don’t like breakfast?” Nolan’s tone is incredulous as he eyes me suspiciously. “Who doesn’t likebreakfast?”
I shrug, breaking his gaze to look at my feet again.
“Well, that won’t do,” he says, rifling through the papers on his desk. He finds a blank crew menu sheet and holds it out to me. “Fill this out. Anddon’tskimp on breakfast, okay? It’s the most important meal of the day.”
I relent with a shaky laugh, accepting the menu from his outstretched hand. He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket and hands it to me, then crosses his arms while he waits.
I put a mark beside coffee for breakfast, but leave the rest of the options unselected. I reallydon’twant to order food; it would feel like such a waste. Besides, I doubt he’ll take a look at the menu once I’ve put it in the stack. As I scribble my name and room number, I catch sight of one of his tattoos out of the corner of my eye.
Winding between the inky curls of a few monstera leaves on his forearm is a line of words—lyrics, I realize—in small script.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“Is that aLentattoo?” I sputter, dumbstruck. “As in, early-2000s-Canadian-one-hit-wonder Len?”
The most oft-quoted lyric of the song in question is also its name—“Steal My Sunshine.” The rest of the lyrics are nearly all nonsense…with the exception of one line, sung at the end of the first verse, and now inked on Nolan’s skin. That line offers a moment of profound insight, surrounded by incoherent, fragmented thoughts—and it isn’t even about sunshine. Or theft.
It’s about becoming bydoing, without holding back—taking action, rather than just imagining.
Nolan turns to me then, throwing me a sly smirk as confirmation that yes, this mandoeshave a Len tattoo.
