“Hi! I’m Sora Harumoto.” Nolan takes her hand and shakes it, then looks back to me expectantly.
“Hey, N-Nolan,” I manage to stutter. “Thank you again for setting this up. We got some great footage.” He grins down at me.
“Oh, awesome, I’m so glad.”
He’s holding a brown bag in one hand. I try to peek inside, but he pulls it away, tutting at me reproachfully.
“This is not for your eyes—yet.” He winks and my brain short-circuits.
Do I wink back? Do I smile? Do I laugh?
I am absolutely losing it.
“Oh, uh…I should get going, Chloe. I promised Demi I’d be up early to help her, so I should really get to bed.” Sora snaps me out of the panic-spiral that apparently put my brain out of commission, and I nod vigorously until I can form words again.
“Sure, yeah. Thanks again for all your help! I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“It was nice to meet you, Sora,” Nolan says with a genuine grin. Once she’s grabbed her bag and disappeared, he turns on his heel and begins walking down the corridor.
“Meet me at my office in five!” he shouts over his shoulder.
To be honest, I’m not sure if five minutes is going to be enough time to give myself the pep talk I need in order to not make a fool out of myself tonight. I must have lost my game completely the minute I turned thirty.
FIFTEEN
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
WHATTA MAN—SALT-N-PEPA
I don’t haveto meet Nolan at his office after all.
Just as I finish packing up my equipment—with the exception of the GoPro, which will record for the rest of dinner service—a warm hand on my shoulder alerts me to his presence. I pivot where I’m kneeling, immediately coming face-to-face with his crotch.
“Hey, you don’t have any allergies, do you? I totally forgot to ask,” he says, unaware of how awkward my current position is.
“Funny, guys don’t usually ask about my allergies when I’m down here,” I quip, dragging my eyes up his body to meet his gaze. His brows shoot straight up, and I’m not sure if he’s surprised or turned on. I really didn’t mean to be that forward; it just sounded funny in my head.
“So, is that a no?”
“That’s ano.”
My cheeks are burning, and Nolan’s brows lower, arching only slightly as he gives me a wry grin.
“Good to know. About both those things.”
I used to have game when it came to flirting. While I’m not exactly winning any beauty pageants, Idohave the ability to think quickly on my feet, to come up with witty banter or snarky remarks. This is probably how I caught the attention of other funny—but unfortunately, also kind of mean—men.
Yet, for some reason, talking to Nolan has me completely tongue-tied in a way that I can guarantee isnotcute. Or witty. Or banter-y. Instead, it just feels awkward.
Nolan holds out his hand and I take it to stand, offering him a quick “Thanks” once I’m on my feet and slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks, his brow suddenly furrowing in concern.
I think about my bad joke and wonder if he can tell how nervous I am.
“Yeah, why?”
“You winced when you picked up your bag.”
