EIGHTEEN
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
RHYTHM IS A DANCER — SNAP!
During the day,the Lunar Lounge’s creamy white walls are unadorned, its shelves are bare, and the music is unassuming. The soft rise and fall of pop favorites covered by indie artists loops on repeat in the daytime, offering guests a reprieve from boisterous pool parties or off-ship excursions.
But more often than not, it’s used byLovecrew members. If someone is there, they’re likely taking a time-out to cry, check their phone, or catch a quick nap.
So, I know it well.
Or at least, IthoughtI did.
I guess I’ve never seen it at night, becausethisLunar Lounge—beneath the glittering stars and deep, inky plum of the night sky—has been completely transformed.
What was once a soft and subtle space is now dark, loud, and wild. The bass of mid-’80s techno music thumps almost belligerently as sweaty bodies writhe on the small dance floor. On the upper level, which is usually closed off duringthe day, a stunning crisp white bar stretches around the balcony, with serpentine neon designs flashing and pulsating in blue and purple across the bar top and up the wall, washing the space in an ethereal, shivery glow.
It’s intense, absurd, and completely, unthinkably breathtaking.
Not in the same way the historic architecture of Mediterranean Europe is, but I can appreciate that, similar to other extravagant areas of the ship, whoever designed the unique light features of the Lunar Lounge certainly had vision.
I’m standing, dumbstruck, in the wide-open double doors, scanning the room for a glimpse of Nolan’s tall frame and jet-black hair, when I feel a lingering touch on the small of my back. Sparks shoot up my spine and I jump, then realize it’s Nolan’s firm body that is pressing into mine, not some drunk ship guest trying to cop a feel.
“It’s something, huh?” Nolan shouts over the music.
“I’ve never seen so much neon,” I shout back.
A man bumps into my shoulder and I pitch forward, losing my balance, but Nolan’s arm snakes around my waist, catching me from falling face-first. I give Nolan an irritated look that says,what’s with that guy?but I notice his brows are knit in concern, his dark eyes on me. My frustration immediately dissolves.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning in closer until his lips brush my ear. I try to nod, but a shiver cuts it short. I feel the deep rumble of a laugh in his chest, as if he is perfectly aware of the effect he’s having on me. “Are yousureabout that?”
Tease, I think to myself.Two can play at that game.
Instead of putting space between us, I lean farther back into his hard chest, arching my back ever so slightly until my ass pushes into his crotch.
His breath hitches, and I smirk.
Gotcha.
“I’m perfect,” I say coyly, twisting my head up to meet his gaze.
The playful edge to his features that I’m used to has been replaced by a sharper, more determined emotion tonight. I catch his usual scent of cinnamon and citrus, but notice it’s blended with a subtle hint of white tea that I recognize as the ship’s signature scent. I find myself wondering if he would smell this good with his clothes off, or if it would be muskier, more masculine, and I have to physically shake the thoughts from my head.
Easy, girl, I say to myself.
Well, to my vagina.
I push away from him and turn so we’re face to face. Nolan’s gaze dips to my mouth, then drags slowly down my body, taking in the little black dress that I, by some miracle, managed to pack, just in case an occasion such as this arose.
“You look nice,” he says sincerely.
It’s becoming glaringly obvious to me that I haven’t had a night out in a long time, and haven’t been around a man that I’ve liked this much in even longer. It’s intoxicating. So, when Nolan smiles at me, his face open and eager, I beam without reservation.
“Thanks,” I reply. And I mean it.
“Come on, follow me.” Nolan threads his fingers through mine, leading me through the crowd toward the winding set of stairs.
As we reach the second floor, Nolan squeezes us past a rowdy group of guests to the end of the bar, where two sleek black chairs sit unoccupied, a “Reserved” sign hung over the back of each one. Without dropping my hand, he removes the sign from each seat and pulls out a chair for me, motioning me toward the one on the very end of the bar so we can almost face each other.
