“I think because the recipe is simple, but the pastry itself is extremely difficult to make, and so time consuming. But the more you do it, the better you get at it. And the result?” He turns to look at me directly, the timbre of his voice dropping lower. “Perfection.”
I get the feeling he isn’t talking about croissants anymore.
“What’s your favorite pastry?” he asks, his gaze still locked with mine. I think about it for a beat, trying to ignore the fluttering in my belly again.
“That’s a really hard question. I mean—can I say all of them?”
Nolan throws his head back and guffaws, then looks back at me. “Absolutely, you can.”
His smile is so genuine and kindhearted that my heart squeezes. I feel like I could say anything to him and he’d find it delightful one way or another.
“But. If someone were to make you your favorite pastry…which one would itbe?”
I’m not surprised by this question, especially not coming from him, but it doesn’t make my cheeks heat any less. I mean, the guy has been feeding me since the first day on the ship.
“First breakfast, then dinner, now dessert?” I say playfully.
He turns to lean his hip against the counter and folds his arms over his chest, jostling the mic.
“Yeah, so what?”
“So…a girl might start to wonder what your intentions are.”
“I think they’re pretty clear, Chloe,” he says, his voice low and sultry. The playful edge is still there, but it’s layered with something else—something like desire.
I swallow.
Nolan is so incredibly clear in his conviction that I don’t have to second-guess what he means. Iknowexactly what his intentions are—they’re written all over his face—and it’s startling to my psyche to be faced with a man who is so completely open and honest with me.
It’s also terrifying. Because I don’t have my doubts to hide behind, like I have in past relationships.
I clear my throat and look away, finally unable to hold Nolan’s heated gaze any longer.
“You bumped your lav mic,” I mumble, maneuvering around the camera to come stand in front of him. “Here, let me fix it.”
My heart is racing as I reach up to Nolan’s collar to adjust his mic. It’s a flimsy excuse to get closer to him, but I’m not like Nolan—being vulnerable and putting what I want out there in plain sight isnothow I’ve ever done things.
While my cheeks are still aching from smiling, my expression has fallen into something more serious, and I feel my brows knit together as I work to reset the lav mic, fiddling with distracted fingers for far too long. I gather enough courage to steal a glance up at him and find that he has a look of genuine curiosity on his face as our eyes meet.
Nolan’s hand, still dusty with flour, brushes mine, and he gently tugs my fingers away from his collar, concern etched between his brows.
“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, brushing a curl away from my face and tucking it behind my ear. One hand rests gently at the nape of my neck, his other on my shoulder.
Never in my life have I beenwooedlike this. Actually—come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever truly been wooed before.
Did this man just step out of a ’90s rom-com?
So,obviouslyI lean forward, inching myself closer to his body, to the warmth and solidness of his broad chest. Because who wouldn’t, in this scenario?
“Nothing’s wrong,” I reply breathlessly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Then how come you’re more interested in fixing that mic than you are in kissing me?” His voice is rough as he tries to keep it steady, and I get the sense he’s holding back. My pulse hammers in my ears.
“Well, aren’t you presumptuous?” is all I can manage, as the nervous energy buzzing through my body makes the routine exchange of thoughts into words a challenge.
“That I am.” The smile on his face is wicked, and the corner of my mouth curls up at his response. “But it’s all I’ve thought about ever since you screamed at that poor Italian forklift driver.”
“If you’ve wanted to kiss me for that long, why haven’tyoudone something about it?”
