A bartender in a ruffled black dress shirt and with short, tousled hair spots Nolan, gives him a quick nod, then disappears into a room behind the bar.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, glancing between the doorway where the bartender disappeared and Nolan.
“Freddie, one of our best mixologists,” he explains, rapping his knuckles gently on the bar,, as if he can’t sit still. “He’s also a total cunt. Beats me in poker once a month with a few other guys. I swear he makes more off that game than this job.”
I bark out a laugh. Nolan grins smugly at me, and I can’t help but notice how pleased he is when he makes me laugh. It’s cute.
Freddie the bartender reappears, with two tall glasses clutched upside down in one hand and what I recognize as a culinary smoking gun in the other.
“Chef Braddock,” Freddie says in a thick Scottish accent. He places the glasses down on the bar in front of him, then extends his hand toward me. I take it, meeting his blue eyes with an easy grin. “Name’s Freddie.”
“Chloe,” I reply, then add, “I’m with theLove at First Sailcrew.”
“Yeah—Nolan’s told me all about you.” His extra emphasis onallgives me the impression that the handsome, grinning idiot seated across from me has been a little less tight-lipped about our flirting than I have. Not that I have anyone to tell, except for Sora—Kyla still isn’t saying much except for the odd “everything is fine, just super busy applying for jobs!” which, for the record, I don’t believe.
I glance at Nolan, curious whether I should be concerned if the rest of the ship knows about us or not, but he just shrugs.
“Right,” I snort, my attention cutting from Nolan back to Freddie. “Well, whatever he’s said, don’t believe him. He’s a liar.”
“Don’t I know it.” Freddie beams at me as he flips the champagne glasses over and sets up the smoking gun. “The man’s a right arse, isn’t he?”
“Hey, I’m right here,” Nolan cuts in. “Just do the job I’m paying you for, Freddie, before I?—”
Freddie guffaws. “Youdon’t pay me, shithead! Shayla does.”
Nolan and Freddie begin to bicker, their accents becoming too thick for me to comprehend as the debate grows heated. I realize I’m half-squinting, head cocked to the side, as I try to understand their banter as the beat of some trance song I don’t recognize drones on in the background.
It’s a tad overstimulating.
“You know, I can leave you two to enjoy this date together, if you’d prefer. I have an early morning,” I interject, placing my palms on the bar and lifting myself out of the chair as if to leave.
Nolan and Freddie immediately shut their mouths, and Nolan touches my arm momentarily. “Don’t judge me by the company I keep.”
I lower myself back into the chair. “Alright, fine.”
“So, like I said,” Freddie begins, “Nolan told me all about you. Wanted me to show you some of the more interesting cocktails on our menu. Said you might want to film it?”
It’s then that Nolan notices I haven’t brought my camera with me. “I guess I wasn’t very convincing, was I?” he teases gently.
I chuckle and shake my head as I pull a small mirrorless camera from my clutch. “I didn’t think I’d need the big lens tonight for what you wanted to show me…”
Nolan clutches at his heart like he’s been shot. “Ouch, you wound me.”
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that,” Freddie remarks.
“I just didn’t want to carry around a heavy camera tonight,” I admit, leaning in closer to Nolan. “My back’s been killing me the past few days.”
His face falls.
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t even think… Of course, that’s totally fair.”
Suddenly, it feels like Nolan is holding back, like he’s a little distant. I’m not sure if it’s because Freddie is here, or if he’s upset, but it feels like the tension that’s been pulled taut between us all night just unspools completely. I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye and notice his mouth is slightly downturned. Not quite a frown, or a grimace—but definitely somewhere in that ballpark.
Over the next hour, Freddie walks us through how to craft several of the Gemstone’s signature cocktails, including a smoky whiskey sour called a Mixed Signals and an espresso chocolate martini that Freddie claims doesn’t have a fancy name. I insist he calls it The Chloe from now on, which earns me a tight-lipped smile, but not a laugh, from Nolan.
Our mixology lesson ends with a tasting of the Queen’s Gemstone, a sparkling emerald cocktail that Freddie says he can’t share the recipe for but would be happy to make me anytime.
We didn’t drink all of what Freddie made us, just a few sips of each, as Nolan and I both agreed we have to be functional in the morning. But I must have drunk more than I can handle, because my lips feel loose. After Nolan leads me out of the Lunar Lounge and down to the Lido deck, away from the thumping music, I waste no time in pulling him to a stop, whirling so I’m in front of him and he understands that I mean business.
