After getting B-roll footage of him pulling the dough out of the fridge and walking me through the 16-hour process toactuallymakethe dough, I decide that now would be a good time for the interview, while he’s focused on shaping it.
Except, it turns out, that’s the worst idea ever.
“So, what are you making right now?” I ask.
Nolan freezes and clears his throat nervously. I notice his foot starts to tap as he leans forward onto his hands. He wasn’t kidding; he really is camera-shy.
He glances at me. Then at the camera. Then back at me.
“It’s okay—just talk. I’m only filming your hands right now, not your face, and the microphone will catch whatever you say.” I point to the tiny lavalier mic I’ve clipped to his shirt. “Just like we’re having a conversation.”
“Alright,” he says gruffly, drawing out the syllables in a way that makes me shiver. “Well, right now I’ve got my dough ready and am about to add the small pieces of chocolate at one end, then tightly roll the dough up around the chocolate. This is what gives them their name: pain au chocolat. Which is a chocolate croissant, if you don’t speak French. Which I don’t, because…I’m…not French.” He looks at me and screws up his face in consternation, one brow arched questioningly. I stifle a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand to keep from losing it.
“Uh-huh…okay, go on.”
“Don’t laugh at me,” Nolan hisses playfully, tossing a pinch of flour my way while laughter rolls out of me in silent waves.
“I’m not, I promise!” I manage through giggles.
“I don’t reward bad behavior, Chloe. Another peep and you’re not getting any of these chocolate croissants.”
“You mean pains au chocolat,” I try to deadpan, but I’m laughing too hard, and my French accent comes out garbled.
“Yes, but as I already said…I’m not French.”
For a minute, everything feels upside down—like when you’re so sleep-deprived that even the blandest joke can take on a bizarre—and, ultimately, hilarious—connotation, just with the way it’ssaid.
We both look at each other, stone-faced, for a beat, then erupt into raucous laughter. Nolan doubles over, and I have to cross my legs tightly so I don’t pee myself.
It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed like that—truly untethered from the stresses of my life. I’m so focused on this moment, here with Nolan, that I can barely even remember why I’ve been so uptight lately.
Nolan’s laughter finally dies down, and I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, a slight smile still tugging at my lips.
“Okay, okay—I’m good. You good?”
“I’m good,” Nolan says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Where were we?”
“Like I was saying…I’m adding the chocolate to the dough,” Nolan explains, moving back to his workspace. “Then I’m going to roll it up and I’ll pop the tray in the fridge so it can go right into the oven first thing in the morning.”
Nolan seems to get more comfortable as he talks, relaxing into the rhythm of his hands. Cutting the dough, placing the chocolate, then rolling. And repeat. It’s mesmerizing.
But—honestly? So is he.
The muscles of his tattooed forearms flex with each new cut and roll, and I sneak a peek at the rest of his body. His physique reminds me of the swimmers I knew in college; all lean, firm muscle and defined edges. Not skinny, but also not in the same neighborhood as the bulky gym bros out on theLovedeck.
I’ve never really had a type, exactly. Each new guy I dated looked very different from the last. I had dated men taller and shorter than me. Men who were a few years younger, and one who was about a decade older. None of those things are what drew me to them, though.
The one common trait that I’ve always found attractive is a sense of humor. I can’t help it—I love a guy who can make me laugh. The only problem was that most of the funny men Ifell for also had a tendency to be mean. Suddenly, those witty remarks and clever quips had sharp edges to them, edges that ended up cutting me in unexpected ways. It’s part of why I haven’t had a real relationship in a long time—my self-esteem is still in tatters from the last asshole.
Things with Nolan seem different, though. Our banter doesn’t feel pretentious; it feels lived-in. Like we’ve done this for years. And I’ve never felt that he has any ill intentions.
Still, I’m nervous around him.
Not because he’s the kind of funny that feels mean, but because I’ve been hurt so many times before that I’m not exactly sure if I trust myself to know when I’m in on the joke, and when Iamthe joke.
“Over dinner, you mentioned this was your favorite thing to bake. Why?” I ask quietly, careful not to break his concentration.
