The Trade(31)

Then I’ll get ready for dinner and try to enjoy my time on this enchanting island with a larger-than-life man.





Crash.

“Ouch. Shit,” a deep voice whispers.

I shoot up off the mattress, the room completely dark, just the faintest light from the moon filtering in through the windows. Enough for me to spot a shadowed figure at the foot of the bed. Fight or flight kicks in immediately and before I can think about it, I scramble around on the bed, an ear-piercing scream falling from my lips as my hand connects with the cordless phone on the nightstand. I whip the phone at the figure and scream, “Murderer,” while taking a pillow and using it as a shield, clutched to my chest.

“Christ,” the figure mutters when the phone hits him in the arm. “Natalie, it’s me . . . Cory.”

“Don’t you—” I perk up. “Wait, what?” In seconds, the day unfolds in my mind. The flight, the hotel room, the shots, my conversation with Monica. “Oh God, Cory, I’m so sorry.” I lean over and turn the nightstand light on, horrified that I just hit Cory with a phone.

Chuckling and rubbing the side of his arm, he says, “That’s okay.” When he looks up, his eyes widen for a second before he looks away. “Uh . . . you slept through dinner.”

Why did his eyes widen like that? I reach up and feel my hair . . . sticking six inches off my head. Shit. I try to smooth it down, but since I’m not staring in a mirror, I have no idea what’s happening. When I look down at the pillow I was using as a shield in front of me, I notice a giant drool spot. No, this can’t be happening. If I drooled that bad . . .

I glance down again and see half my face melted onto the pillow as well, which only means one thing.

Sitting cross-legged, I take a deep breath and look Cory dead in the eyes. “Is one side of my makeup smeared down my face?”

He chuckles and looks at me again. “I mean, I’ve never really seen anything like it.”

Yup, just what I thought. I look like the seaweed monster.

I don’t even bother to get up or rush to the bathroom to fix my face, because what’s the point? He’s seen the worst. It’s not like whatever magical spell I perform in the bathroom is going to erase this unflattering image from his head.

So I lean back on the bed and sigh. “I slept through dinner?”

He nods, hands tucked in his pockets. He’s wearing blue chino shorts and a white linen shirt. His hair is styled to the side in that messy way that makes any man with the same haircut look drop-dead sexy. And from the small V at the top of his shirt, I can tell he got a bit of sun today. “I was going to wake you up, but you were snoring, and I thought—”

“I was snoring?” Shoot me now.

“It wasn’t like my grandpa, who could rattle the walls with one intake of breath. It was more of a . . .” He makes quiet snoring sounds, and I wish in this moment my seaweed monster face would swallow me whole. “Wasn’t terribly loud, but I have to ask, is that an every-night thing? Am I going to need earplugs?”

I know he’s teasing—I tell myself that—but it doesn’t stop the heat from crawling up the back of my neck in absolute embarrassment.

“I’m hoping it was a tequila thing.”

“No tequila for you then. Anyway”—he rocks on his heels—“I didn’t wake you up, because it looked like you needed to sleep off those shots. But I did bring you back some food. Jason said your drunk food is chicken fingers and fries.” Cory reaches to the side and holds out a platter. “With a side of honey mustard.”

Okay, that’s sweet. Really sweet.

Almost too sweet.

“It’s straight from the kitchen, still hot. If you wanted, I can keep the cover on this, and you can take a shower.”

Skeptically I ask, “Are you suggesting I take a shower?”

“I mean . . . just to make sure your face didn’t actually melt off.”

“Very funny.” I hop off the bed, but not before stumbling forward slightly. Cory tries to reach for me, but I grip the bathroom door, catching myself before I face-plant into the wall. Laughing nervously, I say, “Guess I still have my wasted legs on. I’ll take it easy. Be right out.”

I shut the bathroom door and take a deep breath before turning toward the sink.

“Good God,” I shout, stepping backward away from the mirror as if that will help get rid of the reflection staring back at me.

From the other room, I can hear Cory laughing. “It’s more terrifying when the lights are suddenly switched on and you’re not expecting it.”

Working my lips to the side, I politely say, “Good to know,” and then make quick work of my clothes and . . . my face.

No wonder his eyes widened. I look like a hooker clown who had one hell of a rough night. Why is my hair like this? What the hell was I doing?

And the mascara I was wearing, dripping down my face. Was I crying in my sleep?

Wait . . . no. I was nearly drowning in a puddle of my own drool.

Disgusted with myself, I hop in the shower and scrub my body with every last ounce of energy left in me. Once dry and clean, face devoid of makeup, I lotion up and consider putting more makeup on and then think better of it. I’m going to bed soon, so what’s the point? Cory has seen me with smeared horror makeup, and no makeup is better than that.