“I’m…not sure what you mean, ma’am,” he replies, his tone wary.
Ugh, strike two.
I must be staring daggers at this poor kid for his careless use of the word “ma’am”(seriously, I thought people stopped using that word in the late ’90s!), because a look of pure fear flashes across his punchable face.
Without another word, he dips his head and makes a beeline for the door, letting it swing shut behind him without another glance my way.
The quiet of the room envelops me. I sigh and stare at the door for a moment, afraid the man will be knocking again momentarily, back with more food.
I really need to work on my people skills. But who can blame me? It’s literally six in the morning.
The scent of coffee breaks my trance, and I turn to inspect the steaming plate.
Eggs, bacon, sausage, home fries—plus a side plate of French toast, dusted lightly with icing sugar and cinnamon, and a small bowl of berries. There’s even a tiny pitcher of syrup.
It smells incredible.
I spot a folded piece of paper with my name on it propped beside the larger plate and pick it up. I unfold it to see a short note, written in a hasty scrawl.
Chloe,
To answer your question from yesterday, I like music from the ’90s because it’s nostalgic, mostly. But also because it reminds me not to take life too seriously.
Your turn. If you could tattoo one lyric on your skin, what would it be?
N.
P.S. I know you said you don’t like breakfast, but you haven’t tried mine.
My chest warms at the thought of Nolan going through the trouble of putting together breakfast for me even earlier than the kitchen usually does. It’s been so long since anyone cooked me a meal.
Between my dad, before he was sick, and Kyla—who, frankly, can’t cook to save her life—the last time anyone made me a meal that I didn’t pay for was probably an ex-boyfriend. And even then, I wouldn’t be able to confidently confirm whether they had done it because they genuinely wanted to take care of me, or because they were hoping for something in return.
It was likely the latter, given my not-so-stellar track record when it comes to dating.
I pick up a few home fries, pop them in my mouth, and chew—they’regood. Not too salty, perfectly crisp around the edges, but still soft in the middle. Savory. Like something you’d find replacing the frites in a steak frites dish at a high-end, yet trendy, restaurant. I try the bacon next, then the eggs, each bite perfectly cooked and seasoned. Although I’ve never been a fan of eggs, I don’t hate Nolan’s. So that’s a plus.
Finally, I drench the French toast in syrup, swiping up a drop that lands on the plate and sticking my finger in my mouth to taste it.
“Ohhhh, that’s the good stuff,” I mumble, savoring the rich flavor of real maple syrup. It’s thin and not overly sweet, unlike the over-processed crap that most people buy. Where I’m from, that “table syrup” stuff is considered pure sacrilege—an affront to the entire country.
I cut off a corner of the toast with the edge of my fork and stuff the big, fluffy piece in my mouth. I only need to chew for a few seconds before I melt.
“Damn it, Nolan,” I groan, my mouth still half full. “Why’d you have to make me fall in love with breakfast?”
I grab the note and read his words again.
This is flirting, right?
I mean, he had every reason to blow me off after my weirdly personal question…but he didn’t. In fact, he went out of his way to keep his promise. And it came with a full plate of food. Reallygoodfood.
I try to imagine Nolan frying the potatoes and bacon himself, writing the note off to the side of the stovetop, then passing the tray to the server and sending him along to my room.
Unless, of course, my tray was just one more in the long list of orders going out to crew members this morning—and thus was cooked by some nameless chef on shift, and not Nolan himself.
But that doesn’t feel like something he would do; not when he also gave very specific instructions to the poor kid tasked with delivering my meal—and a handwritten note, to boot.
The phone ringing on the table next to the tray breaks me out of my thoughts, and I pick it up quickly.
