The Trade

by Quinn, Meghan

  I grab my drink and give them a parting wave, chuckling the entire time.

  Not her type.

  Please.

  I’m not full of myself by any means, but I do know one thing for certain: Natalie can hide under those sunglasses all she wants, I still caught her checking me out. Not that it matters, but it’s nice to know that she’s avoiding me, even when the girls suggest she hook up with me.

  She’s holding on to the friend-trip. I like that. Shows she not like every other girl who’s tried to get with me.

  * * *

  I grip the edge of the table and say, “Want to go for a walk?”

  Natalie rubs her stomach and blows out a long breath. “I think I need one after that pasta dish.”

  We’re both sitting at the vacated table, everyone already off to their rooms—hmm, wonder what they’re doing, thankfully we don’t share walls—and the sun has set. The beach and resort are lit with tiki torches, creating an island-living vibe. There’s a small breeze, and the temperature has cooled enough that we don’t need to walk around in a bathing suit to survive.

  The perfect evening for a stroll.

  Staring at her empty plate, I say, “I’m impressed you ate all of that.”

  She pats her stomach again and smiles at me. “No shame. If I have pasta belly tomorrow in a two-piece, everyone is going to have to deal with it.”

  “I’m sure no one will even notice,” I say, standing from my chair. And that’s because she’s fucking hot, and any skin that Natalie shows turns me on. “Ready?”

  She looks around and then asks, “Think there’s a forklift that can help me out of my chair?”

  I chuckle and offer my hand to help her up. I love how real she is with me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman pat her stomach after a full meal, let alone ask for a forklift to help her out of her chair, but that’s what makes Natalie so unique. From the very first moment I talked to her, she hasn’t hidden who she is, which makes her an exceptional human I want to be around.

  After helping her up, I let her hand fall from mine even though in the back of my head, a part of me wishes I could keep holding on to it. We make our way down the steps, away from the restaurant and past the pool to a trail that leads through the native vegetation of the Caribbean.

  “Would you ever live on an island?” she asks, pushing past a palm tree, her long dress swishing along the leaves overtaking the path.

  “I don’t know,” I answer, sticking my hands in my pockets so I don’t do something like reach out and take hers. “It seems like a fantasy when we’re here on vacation, but I wonder if that fantasy would wear off if we actually lived on the island. Would we get annoyed with all the vacationers coming to get drunk and soak up our sun? Would we have island fever? Would we be able to live through the hurricanes and rising sea levels?”

  She studies me, blinks a few times, and then says, “Way to take the romance out of the idea.”

  I chuckle and tap the side of my head. “You have to think these things through. It’s how people wind up with vacation homes on islands and then are miserable.”

  “Name one person you know who has a vacation home on an island and is miserable.”

  “Umm . . .” I look at the dark night sky, appreciating the stars dotting the abyss. “Richard Branson?”

  “As in Sir Richard Branson?” she asks. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he isn’t crying over his private island.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  “He’s not. Have you seen pictures of Necker Island? I keep telling Jason once we hit five million dollars in donations for The Lineup, he’s sending me on vacation there. It’s five thousand dollars a night, during the off season. And I know what you’re thinking, five thousand a night is pocket change to you.” Yup. “But to a girl who works for a non-profit, five thousand is a lot.”

  “Is that your dream vacation?”

  “One of them,” she answers as we cross a bridge that leads to the beach. We both bend and pull off our sandals, carrying them in our hands.

  “Where else do you want to go?” I ask.

  “The Amalfi Coast. It looks so gorgeous with the houses and buildings built on the side of a mountain. It’s one of those things I think you have to see in real life to gain an appreciation for the architecture.”

  I nod. “The Amalfi Coast is on my bucket list as well.”

  “Really?” she asks, a little surprised. “Why haven’t you gone yet? Not to be crass, but you have money, Cory.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I laugh and then shrug, sinking my feet deep into the sand with each step. “I haven’t gone on many vacations to be honest. When I was in Baltimore, I usually went back to Chicago during the off season.”

  “Why not travel?”

  “Because”—I sigh—“traveling isn’t much fun when you don’t have anyone to enjoy it with. I would always take my family on one vacation after the season, but those started to dwindle with everyone’s lives getting busier and busier.”

  “You want a travel partner.”

  Just a partner in general. Someone to share the burden of life with, someone to come home to who will let me fucking hold them and cuddle into their back after a rough game or day. The more I think about having someone like that in my life, the more I want it. Milly challenged my determined life plan of singleness until retirement, and now it’s like the floodgates have opened and it’s all I fucking think about.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess it would have to be the right travel partner. When I went on vacation with Ansel, I always felt like I was dragging him out to do activities. He wanted to stay in the hotel and watch sports. He never wanted to experience anything.”

  I can feel the scowl take over my face and thankfully, it’s fairly dark so Natalie can’t see it, but I can’t hide the disdain in my voice. “Why go somewhere new if you’re just going to sit in the hotel and watch TV?” And why the hell didn’t he get off his ass and do what his wife wanted, for fuck’s sake? It’s what you do when you love a woman. Ansel is an ass.

  “It’s what he was comfortable with. Stepping outside of that comfort zone was very challenging for him. When we were in Hawaii a few years ago, I remember going on an ATV tour by myself because the Bobbies playoff game was on. Granted, I love the Bobbies—no offense,” she says from the side of her mouth, “but I wasn’t about to stay in the hotel room when there was a Jurassic Park tour I could go on.”

  “Oh shit, you did the Jurassic Park tour? Ever since I heard about it, I’ve wanted to go on it.”

  “It was amazing. Every second I thought T. rex was going to pop out of the bushes, making that horrendous sound. I had my ATV geared up and ready to take off with any shake of the ground I felt.”

  Laughing, I say, “I take it you didn’t run into good old Rexy?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Just his steaming piles of turd.” She chuckles wickedly and then asks, “What else is on your vacation bucket list?”

  “Besides Richard Branson’s private island?”

  “Yes, beside Sir Richard Branson’s private island.”

  I scratch the side of my jaw, mulling it over. “Uh, there are a few places. I really want to go on an African safari, take in the beauty of the animals in their natural habitat. I want to see a cheetah run at full speed. I can’t imagine an animal going sixty miles per hour, can you?”

  “I mean, I run at about forty miles per hour, so I can see it,” she jokes, and fuck if it doesn’t make me want to drape my arm over her shoulder, bring her into my chest, and kiss the top of her head. She’s wrecking me, one cute personality trait at a time.

  “Only forty? Man, that’s slow.”

  “Bullshit.” Her eyes widen when she turns to me, and then she starts laughing. “Have you ever seen that episode of The Office where there’s one of those police speed radars outside their parking lot? And they take turns seeing who can run the fastest? Michael started running while a car was passing and claimed he ran thirty-one miles per
hour.”

  I stare blankly at her. “What’s ‘The Office’?”

  She stops mid-stride and her mouth practically falls to the ground. “You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding? Michael Scott, Dwight . . . Pam . . . Jim.” Nothing. I stare. Swallowing, she whispers, “That’s what she said?”

  “Uh, what did who say?”

  Dramatically, she throws her arms up in the sky and says, “Ohhh . . . myyy . . . GOD, Cory!” Without another word, she takes me by the arm, right above my elbow, and guides me back up the trail to the resort, charging forward, her hair brushing against my skin from the wind and the pace we’re trekking at.

  “Uh, what are you doing?”

  “You’re going to watch The Office, right now.”

  “But weren’t we just saying you shouldn’t watch TV while on vacation?”

  “This is a life-or-death situation, Cory. Plus, it’s night. I’ll pop some popcorn, and we’ll have a marathon on the couch bed. It’s a form of relaxation. Plus, it’s not like we’re about to do water sports right now. We’re rectifying this monstrous situation.”

  “What if I don’t want to watch it?”

  She looks over her shoulder, smiling at me. “You don’t have a choice. We’re sharing a room, so you either watch it, or I have it on full blast while you’re trying to sleep. Take your pick.”

  Love her determination. “Do we get to have a special drink with the popcorn?”

  “What do you want?”

  “An old classic Coke. And can we also get some M&M’s to go in the popcorn? Milly has ruined me with the sweet and salty combination.”

  “Yes. But those are the only requests you get.”

  “Fucking brutal.” I laugh, as she guides me the rest of the way to our room.

  * * *

  “I feel like I’m going to throw up, I’m so excited.” Natalie changed into her pajamas. This set is white with little red hearts all over them—super fucking adorable and short. Her hair is up in a bun, and her face is freshly washed, leaving a small tint of red where she scrubbed. She smells amazing from the quick rinse off she took in the shower, and her legs glisten under the dim lights from the lotion she applied.

  How do I know she applied lotion? Because she did it in the living room while filling me in on everything I need to know about The Office. Apparently, the first season is a short season and it’s a little rough around the edges, whereas season two is where things really pick up, so I’m not allowed to judge the show based off season one.

  It’s surprising I retained any of that after watching her hands smoothly run up and down her limber legs.

  I took a quick shower after that and you can imagine what I also did in the shower—ahem, jacked off—and then quickly washed my body before joining Natalie on the “couch bed.” She ordered M&M’s to be brought to the room along with two Cokes and some ice. The popcorn was popped by the time I got out of the shower, and the bowls were ready.

  Now that we’re both on the couch bed, pillows propping us up, her shoulder just inches from mine, I feel like I could throw up too, but for entirely different reasons.

  It feels like we’re having a slumber party, but a sexy slumber party, one where all I can think about is what bra and underwear she’s wearing under her pajama set. The fabric is almost see-through. Pretty sure when she was packing she wasn’t expecting to have to share a room with me. I feel bad for the girl because growing up with Milly, I know all she liked to do when she got home was shed her bra. Doesn’t look like Natalie has the gall to do that. Maybe because I’d be able to see her nipples clear as day through the fabric.

  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.

  “Did my stomach bite you just now? I always wondered if it had a set of teeth of its own since I’m always hungry but wasn’t positive about it until just now.”

  Scrambling from under the covers but so tangled that it’s pointless to keep moving—I think I’m making it worse—I huff in frustration and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t trying . . .” I drag my hand down my face and sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry? Do you think you stole my virtue? Are you nervous the elders are going to find out you slept on my stomach all night and make you marry me?”

  I pause, taking in her words, and then bust out in laughter, shaking my head. “The elders are a deep concern I have on a daily basis. I never want to disappoint them.”

  She lies flat on the mattress and props her chin up with her hands while looking down at me, her feet kicked up behind her. I swear to God, I can feel my heart lurching from her easy, carefree attitude she has around me. “Aren’t you a dutiful little page boy?”