The Trade(47)

Should I tell her not to worry, that I won’t stare for too long?

Or is that crossing a line?

Bowl of popcorn on my lap, I say, “You’re really beefing up the expectations here.”

“Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. You’re about to enter into a new world and leave behind your old world that we will now call, B.O. Before Office.”

“Or we don’t have to call it B.O.,” I say on a laugh.

“No, I’m pretty sure we’re going to call it B.O.” She lifts the remote, turns on the TV, and goes to the Netflix login. She types in her username and password and then finds The Office immediately in her list. Before she starts the episode, she takes a dramatic, deep breath and says, “I really hope you like it.”

She gives me a nervous look and then starts the episode. From that small, insecure glance, I’m going to like it no matter what because Natalie likes it. It seems to bring her joy. And what brings her joy . . . will bring me joy.

The opening credits begin, and Natalie snuggles into the back of the couch, bringing her knees up to her chest. She reaches for the blankets but since I’m sitting on them, she can’t get under.

“Hey, lift up and slip under. It’s chilly.”

“Are you suggesting I get into bed with you, Natalie?” I give her a questioning lift of my brow, which causes her to playfully push my face away.

“Get over yourself and get under the covers. No one likes cold toes.”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I lift my ass and pull the covers down so we can both slip under them just in time for the show to start.

At first, I’m not following anything that’s happening and it’s not because of the show, but more because I keep getting whiffs of Natalie’s lotion, even over the smell of the popcorn. And every time she shifts, my breath stills in my chest, wondering if her foot will graze my leg, if her arm will skim my tricep. But with every move she makes, she misses me by a few inches, driving me crazy with need.

I tell myself we’re friends, to not want a small touch from her, but my body doesn’t listen as it heats up. Because with every moment I spend with her, I desire her more. And not just physically, although that need is extremely loud and persistent. How could it not be? But her sense of humor, her passion for life, her love of baseball, her strength of character, they’re things I want in my future partner. She is the embodiment of who I want, and I need to let that go. It’s not what she wants. It’s not . . . it’s not and will probably never be.

“Oh God, I love him so much,” Natalie says after Michael Scott says something stupid. “I still can’t believe Steve Carell never won an Emmy for his role. He made Michael Scott into the loveable character that he is.”

“Hmm?” I ask, my eyes trained on her lips.

She glances at me, breaking me out of my trance. “Steve Carell, he never got an Emmy for his role.”

“Oh, yeah, that sucks.” I grip the back of my neck, feeling my cheeks flame red with being caught staring at her.

“I know you don’t believe me. Just give it a few episodes. This will be your favorite show of all time.”

She shifts again, but this time, instead of missing my leg, or my shoulder, her hand connects briefly with my thigh before settling back down.

That little touch, that tiny, itty-bitty graze of the back of her fingers, shoots my concentration for the rest of the episode. Hell, if this is how our nights are going to be spent, watching a show I don’t quite understand while sitting next to Natalie, then I’ll take it, because it means there’s a possibility that she might graze me again.

Fuck . . . I’m so pathetic.





“Cory.”

“Hmm?” I mumble while snuggling in closer to my pillow. Fuck, it smells just like Natalie.

“Cory.” Her voice comes louder, as if she’s speaking right into my ear.

“What?” I garble out. “Go to breakfast without me.”

We stayed up late last night watching the entire season one of The Office, and I’ll admit, once I was able to rid myself of the Natalie fog clawing at my brain, I focused on the show, and I actually started to enjoy it. Michael Scott is fucking funny and even though I think Jim is kind of a tool, I think he’s pretty funny too at times.

Oh, note: Natalie did not like it when I called Jim a tool. I got a ten-minute lecture while the show was paused explaining why he’s not a tool, but it was a coded lecture because she was trying not to give away any spoilers. It was basically her mumbling, shouting, mumbling, shouting. Quite entertaining.

I’m not sure when we passed out, but I want to say it was early in the morning when my eyes finally shut.

“I can’t go to breakfast.”

“Feeling sick?” I ask. “Pasta belly?”

“No,” she says, her voice clearer than mine. “I have a baseball barnacle attached to me.” My pillow shifts and in a matter of seconds I realize I’m not holding a pillow, but I’m actually using Natalie’s torso as my personal pillow.

“Oh shit,” I say, jackknifing off her and flinging myself to the other side of the couch bed. Unfortunately, I overestimate its width and tumble backward onto the floor, dragging the blankets with me. Swaddled in a cocoon of bedding, I push the covers away from my face to find Natalie staring down at me from the mattress, her hair propped on the side of her head, and a sleepy look in her eyes. And, even though she looks sleepy, her smile lights up her entire face.