The Trade(59)

She shrugs with one shoulder, staring at her shoes. “It was nice.”

Nice . . . as opposed to . . .

Have nights been “nice” with me?

Whose time did she enjoy more?

I guess the one thing I have over this other dude is she’s standing in my hotel room and not his. That realization helps unclog the ball of anger in my throat so I can quietly ask, “Want to watch some Office?”

She looks up at me through her impossibly long eyelashes. She blinks once, twice, and then says, “Let me get ready for bed; you get it set up.”

I nod and we both start to move around in the room, a heaviness filling the air, clogging up the vents, making the heat spike within my body. And just as she’s about to walk past me to get to the bathroom, I grab her hand to stop her. Her surprised eyes glance up at me, and I don’t know why I stopped her, what I want to say, all I know is that I’m so fucking grateful she’s here and not with some random guy tonight.

“I never told you how beautiful you look tonight,” I say, the words falling past my lips with ease, even though they cause my stomach to ratchet up with unease.

Her red lips part, her eyes search mine.

“Th-thank you,” she says, her voice catching in her throat right before she takes a step away and heads into the bathroom.

Once the click of the door sounds through the room, I push both my hands through my hair and blow out a nervous breath.

Fuck, what am I doing?

I feel so out of control, unsure of what my body is going to do next, what my mouth is going to say. I can feel myself tumbling down a hill with no end in sight, leaving this constricting feeling in my chest, as if there’s a balloon pressing against my chest cavity, and every time Natalie walks into the room, it inflates more and more, making it harder and harder to breathe.

On the edge of losing it, I pick up my phone and text Milly again.

Cory: I feel like I can’t breathe when she’s around. I’m losing all self-control. I don’t think I can avoid her much longer.

Milly: What happened? Where is she?

Cory: Bathroom. She said her evening was nice. She looked untouched. Fuck, Mills, I can’t take this much longer. Almost the last night and I’ve lost all restraint.

Milly: Then just give in.

I shake my head even though she can’t see me.

Cory: I can’t. She wants a fling. I can’t give her that. She’s freshly divorced. I can’t ask her to jump into a relationship.

Milly: Is that what you want? A relationship?

Cory: Fuck yes. Mills, this girl . . . fuck, she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. She’s fun, makes me laugh, doesn’t mind making fun of herself, and she’s at her prettiest right before bed, no makeup, face pink from scrubbing, hair piled on top of her head, loose strands hanging by her neck. She . . . she fucking makes me lose my breath.

Milly: Oh my God, Cory. My heart is hammering in my chest.

Cory: Mine too.

Milly: Maybe talk to her?

Cory: If only it were that simple.

I pick up the remote to the TV and turn on Netflix, plugging in my membership ID and password. Once it’s booted up, I cue the episode we’re on and then turn back to my phone.

Milly: I hate hearing you like this. I want to do something. What can I do?

Cory: Nothing, Mills. I love you, but nothing.

Milly: You’re breaking my heart, Cory. Just go after her.

Cory: I’m too fucking terrified. What happens when I get the one taste of her I’ve been craving and she turns around, gives me a thumbs up, and walks away? I won’t be able to handle that. Two more nights left, I can do this.

I press send just as Natalie walks out of the bathroom. Her dress neatly folded in her hands, her heart pajamas draped on her body, and her hair pulled back, face fresh.

Fucking hell.

She’s all I want.

She sets her things down and then stands tall, looking timid and shy as if she doesn’t quite know how to approach me. I don’t blame her. When she walked into the hotel room, I looked like I was about to punch my head through the wall, then I tell her she’s beautiful, and now I can’t take my eyes off her. She must think I’m a goddamn maniac.

“Do you want a drink or something?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” I go to our couch bed, as Natalie has officially named it, and turn down the blankets. “Want to get in?”

She nods quietly and walks over to the bed where she plugs her phone into the charger on “her side” and then slips under the covers.

Heart hammering in my chest, so fucking happy that she’s here right now, but knowing I can’t do anything about it, I join her and press play on the remote.

We both sit there, stiffly straight, not crossing over on each other’s side, but well aware of one another’s proximity. What I wouldn’t pay right now to figure out what she’s thinking. Does she want to be here, watching The Office with me? Does she wish she was still hanging out with Mr. Linen Shirt? Does she want to reach over and hold my hand?

Hating every second that ticks by with my breath caught in my throat, I try to focus on the show, but I can barely hear it over the pounding of my heart. I want her so fucking bad, I might combust.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Focus on—

She shifts.