The Trade(50)

“I am nervous,” I say.

“Are you?” she asks, concern in her eyes. “About what?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” I take a deep breath. “Are Jim and Pam going to have a relationship?”

Her face falls right before she splashes water in my face. “You’re an idiot.”

“Were you hoping for something more profound?”

“Maybe.” She swims to the edge, breaking the ten-foot rule I was subconsciously abiding by. “I was hoping that maybe you were about to tell me your biggest fears, concerns, any trauma you might be going through.”

Personally, I’m not going through any trauma, but my cock sure is. It’s still hard, and it’s still begging me to make a move.

“Sorry to disappoint. I’m pretty easygoing.”

“Maybe a little too easygoing.” She eyes me and then turns quickly in the water, her finger pointing at me. “Tell me what you’re hiding.”

“What?” I laugh, hoping she can’t see through the fa?ade of nonchalance I’m sporting, noticing how bad I’m lusting after her. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“Your eyes are shifty. Of course, you’re hiding something.”

“And what exactly do you think I’m hiding?” I ask, scooting farther into the water to avoid her catching my current excitement down below.

She studies me, almost as if she’s trying to peel a layer of skin off my face and truly see me. “Oh, you’re hiding something, Cory Potter, and I know exactly what it is.”

“Tell me.”

That stunning smile spreads across her face and she casually says, “You secretly have a sock fetish.”

“What?” I burst out in laughter, not expecting that. “A sock fetish?”

“Oh yeah,” she says dramatically, carrying out the oh in a deep voice. “You think I’m stupid enough not to see it?” She shakes her head. “I know it’s there; it’s why two of my socks have gone missing the last two nights. Explain that.”

She’s so fucking ridiculous, the cute kind of ridiculous that’s amusing to be around.

“Your socks are missing?” Where this even came from, I have no idea, but I’m going with it. “How do you think that’s my fault?” I point to my chest.

“Easy, you’re the only other person in that hotel room.”

“And yet the cleaning service comes in and out.”

She shakes her head. “I go to bed with socks on, and I wake up with one missing. Unless someone is creeping into our room in the middle of the night, you’re the culprit.” She lifts her chin. “What do you do with them? Bring them to your nose and sniff them like they’re your precious?”

I can’t even handle her right now.

“Yup,” I deadpan. “You got me. I’ve been slipping under your covers at night, stealing one sock, and stuffing it into a secret compartment of my suitcase. When you’re in the shower, I pull them out and sniff them for long bouts, filtering your foot essence into my nose until I’m drunk with fungus.”

“I knew it,” she says dramatically while slapping the water. “I knew you—” She stops and her eyes narrow on me. “Did you say . . . fungus?”

I can’t hold back my smile as I slowly nod. “Yup.”

“I don’t have fungus feet.”

We both gently bounce up and down in the water. We’ve mostly got the pool to ourselves. “If you think I have the previously mentioned sock fetish, wouldn’t I be the expert on detecting fungus in socks?”

“Or,” she counters with a grin, “you’re so caught up in the emotions of stealing a new sock, that you’re nose-blind to fungus.”

“Pretty sure I know a stank foot when I smell one.”

Her lips press tightly together, as if she’s trying to hold in a laugh. “Where did this conversation go wrong?”

“I think you’re aware of that moment.” I take a sip of my beer, relaxing from the ease of our repartee.

“Yeah.” She taps her chin, looking toward the sky. “I think it was when I claimed you were hiding something from me.”

“Bingo.” I give her a giant grin.

“Then where are my socks?”

“Probably with the sheets. Beds eat socks, don’t you know that?”

“Huh, that’s a strong possibility.”

Bottle half lifted to my mouth, I say, “I’m glad me having a sock fetish was your first go-to answer rather than the obvious bed gobbling up your socks. Makes me feel really good.”

“Hey.” She holds up her hands. “It’s an honest mistake.”

“I’ll remember that.”





I was wrong. It’s not a drag show or karaoke bingo, it’s disco bingo and I’m going to be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.

The place is packed. It’s an outdoor bar and grill that overlooks the ocean with limited seating. Luckily, we were able to secure a large table ahead of time, giving our party a great view of the dance floor, the bingo caller, and the ocean.

We are easily the youngest crew in the area by at least ten years, and we’re talking my ten years, not the rest of the group’s. And we’re surrounded by regulars . . . regulars with a certain charm you only find on an island.