The Trade(27)

I’ve seen Natalie three times now and no husband? Does he even care to show up with her to her events? To her vacation? Where’s his head at?

Growing more irritated by the lack of appearances from the husband, I decide to make this conversation even more uncomfortable, because I don’t think I can go through the week without the answer.

Twisting my glass on the bar top, I say, “Can I ask you something and you not get mad?”

“Not get mad? Well, you’re just setting yourself up for failure when you say something like that.”

“I know,” I say, glancing at my glass. “But I need to know something that’s been bothering me for a while now.”

“Okay,” she says, seeming skeptical. “I can’t make any promises, but you can ask.”

“If you do get mad, it will make for a wonderful living environment.”

She chuckles and says, “If you piss me off, I will be sure to shack up with Jason and Dottie, and I think we both know the kind of wrath Dottie will reap if that happens. Pretty sure Jason is too much of a suck-up where you’re concerned to voice his irritation.”

“Yeah, but Dottie”—I grip the side of my jaw and shake my head—“can be seriously frightening.”

“I love her and she’s perfect for my brother, but yes, she’s terrifying at times.” She nudges my foot with hers. “Now stop stalling and just ask me so we can decide if I need a shot after this question or not.”

I run my tongue over my teeth, trying to figure out the best way to ask this, but I can’t think of anything better than what’s running through my head. “Won’t your husband be upset if he found out we were sharing a hotel room?”

Natalie pauses her drink halfway to her mouth as a crease forms between her eyes, deep and almost . . . angry.

Shit.

I knew the question wasn’t a good idea. But it’s been slowly eating me up inside. Where is he? Why isn’t he here holding her hand, tightly gripping her waist? Why isn’t he smiling at her, telling her what a great woman she is, or why isn’t he joking around with Jason, teasing him?

“Husband?” she finally asks.

“I know it’s not my place, but I—”

“I’m divorced.”

“—couldn’t help but ask, wait . . .” I tilt my head in her direction. “What did you say?”

She turns back toward the bar and calls the bartender over with a wave of her hand. When he nods at her for her order, she asks for a shot of tequila. While the bartender is pouring her a shot, she says, “I’m divorced. Recently.”

Holy.

Fuck.

I try to hide my reaction, the joy pumping through my veins, the smile that wants to spread across my face, or the fist pump I want to give the sky. I hold back the “thank fuck” on the tip of my tongue and the idiotic jig my feet want to partake in, because it’s not an appropriate reaction.

But . . .

Holy . . . fuck.

Natalie is divorced. Unattached. Free. Available.

These feelings I’ve been harboring, the need to get to know her better, the urge to touch her, they’re no longer off limits.

I can make a fucking move.

Composing myself, I say, “Shit, I’m sorry, Natalie. I had no idea.”

She shrugs, her mood shifting from awkward to indifferent. When the shot is set in front of her, she takes it back quickly, and winces. “We’ve been separated for a while now. I’ve come to terms with it.”

Doesn’t look like she has if she’s downing shots at a bar from the mention of her having a husband.

Tacking on a smile, she says, “So don’t worry, there won’t be a husband coming after you for sharing a hotel room with his wife when you’re back in the States.”

Seeing the shift in her demeanor, the lack of smile, I turn to face her and try to be as empathetic as possible. “I’m not worried about that,” I say softly. “But I am sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure it was confusing. I don’t talk about it much.” Doesn’t talk about it much? I’m going with at all. How didn’t Milly know she was divorced? Carson, Jason, and Knox are gossips . . . in the nicest possible way. So how did Milly not know? Has Natalie had anyone to talk to about it? Dottie? Jason? A friend?

“Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here,” I say, hoping she wants to talk about it, hoping she feels comfortable confiding in me. If anything, being this woman’s friend first might be the best way to help her through this, and then when I think she’s ready, she—

“Thanks, but I’m good. I’m going to live my life,” she says, calling for another shot. “I’m in my mid-twenties and have never really lived it up. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do. No boyfriends, just flings.” She takes down another shot and then stands from her chair. “I’m going to get my bathing suit on. I’ll catch you later, Cory.”

Before I can say another word, she takes off toward the hotel lobby, leaving me at the bar by myself, the sounds of the fluttering of palm trees and the lap of the ocean my companions, my mind reeling about one thing. Just flings.





I glance up as Milly and Carson sit on blue loungers next to me. Both wearing their bathing suits, both looking entirely too happy . . . particularly Carson.