The Trade

by Quinn, Meghan

  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.

  I slip on the comfortable robe that’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door, brush my hair, add some leave-in conditioner to the tips, and then open the door. Cory is sitting on his already made pullout bed, book in hand, reading. He’s changed into a pair of athletic shorts and a T-shirt and looks so comfortable and inviting, I’m tempted to walk up to him and cuddle into his lap.

  He glances up and takes me in. Smiling he says, “That’s much better. Not nearly as terrifying.”

  I walk over to the kitchenette where Cory set up my food and some water—seriously, this guy is so nice. “If you were my brother, you would have at least ten pictures of me saved on your phone, ready to be used for blackmail.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me about Jason. Do you have any pictures of him on your phone?”

  I smile to myself. “Enough to get my way most of the time, but every time he gives in to one of my demands, he makes me delete a picture. I’m starting to run low. I need to find him in some precarious situations soon.” I lift the lid to my food and my mouth waters from the sight of the chicken and fries. “Oh, thank you, fried food gods. This is just what I need right now.”

  “Yeah? Did you really have that many shots?”

  I shake my head. “No, but I think it was the combination of not much food, champagne on the plane, the shots, and a few more cocktails . . . huh, you know, the more I think about it, the more I realize I did drink more than I normally do. Please don’t hold this against me.”

  “You do what you want, it’s your vacation.”

  He lifts his book back up and even though he’s reading, I can’t help but ask, “What are you reading?” The dust jacket is off, and I can’t read the binding from his giant hands covering it.

  “‘Becoming’ by Michelle Obama. It’s really good.”

  “Wait . . .” I have chicken halfway to my mouth when I ask, “You’re reading Michelle Obama’s book?”

  “Uh-huh. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Thought I was reading some thriller?”

  “Sort of.” I chuckle. “Yeah, I was. Something that will be turned into an HBO series.”

  “That’s usually what I like to read, but my assistant, Cheryl, told me I need to read this book. She gave it to me. I figured if a seventy-year-old woman gives me a book, I need to read it because there is a ninety-nine-point-nine percent chance that she’s going to ask me about it.”

  God, that’s adorable. As is the tinge of fear in his expression. This six-foot-plus man is scared of his assistant. Who is older than my mom.

  “Your assistant is seventy?”

  “Yeah. People think it’s weird, but she’s sharper than anyone I know. She takes care of me, never lets me miss an appointment or important event, and she’s more hip on technology than I am. She’s the one who started an Instagram account for me and reminds me to post.”

  “Stop.” I chuckle. “Seriously? Where do I find a Cheryl?”

  “Well, I found her at the grocery store in Baltimore. I was trying to pick out avocados and had no idea what I was doing. She came over and showed me how to pick ones that won’t ripen too fast. And then she took my grocery list and went to the different crates of produce, showing me what I should get. It soon became an entire trip around the grocery store as we spoke about our lives. I realized when we hit aisle nine, where she was lecturing me about the importance of probiotics, that I needed her in my life. And she’s been with me ever since.”

  Why is that the sweetest story I’ve ever heard? I can just see it, tall and muscular Cory confused at the grocery store while this little lady drags him around, aisle by aisle, helping him find food for his cart.

  “That’s a really cute story. Could you imagine if that was your meet cute? How adorable.”

  “Too bad she’s taken. Her husband is a retired Marine, and he’s terrifying. I mean, straight-up will scare you out of your underpants scary. He once startled me so hard at the dinner table, that I nearly knocked the entire table over with my knees. He waits for the quietest moment to shout something incredibly loud, like . . . pass the salt,” Cory shouts, startling me as well. We both laugh. “See what I’m saying? You don’t expect it, do you?”

  “That would
be terrifying, having to be on your guard all the time.”

  He nods. “Yeah, but he’s a good guy and he loves Cheryl. He looks at her as if she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. I swear there’s awe in his eyes whenever she walks into a room.”

  “That’s really sweet,” I say, dipping a piece of chicken and taking a bite. Not wanting to dwell on the fact that my husband never looked at me in awe, I say, “I’m going to guess you guys had a much better dinner, one that isn’t usually found on the kid’s menu.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “We all had steak except for Emory who really wanted mac and cheese, so I think you’re in good company.”

  “I need to hang out with her more then.” Turning in my seat, I say, “Do you ever find this group . . . overwhelming? We’re both kind of outcasts in our own way being pulled in. It’s intimidating.”

  He props his arm on the back of the couch and relaxes into the fabric. “I’ve known these guys for a while, so I haven’t thought much of it. Plus, we all went to Brentwood, not together granted, but we have that in common. But I can see where you’re coming from. They’re a lot to handle. Lots of strong personalities, but you should be used to handling that, given you’re Jason’s sister.”

  “I’m used to handling Jason.” I pop a fry in my mouth. “Not everyone else. Thankfully Dottie has been very sweet and has taken me under her wing. I’m going to make an effort to get to know Milly and Emory better.”

  “Both good people.”

  “Especially your sister, right?” I lightly smile.

  He nods, his eyes focused on something on the wall. “She’s amazing. I wouldn’t be where I am today without her.”

  “I’m guessing you’re super close like Jason and I are?”

  “She’s my best friend,” he answers unapologetically, and the answer stirs my mind with emotion. What a simple but impactful answer—one you don’t hear very often about a brother-sister relationship, but one I can easily relate to. “Growing up, our two brothers, Sean and Rian, always hung out because they’re Irish twins, so they bonded over a lot of things. That gave me the opportunity to hang out with Milly. We soon became inseparable and even though we’re eight years apart in age, she’s still my best friend, and I rely on her for everything.”

  “I feel you,” I reply, trying not to swoon over his answer. “I don’t know what I would do without Jason, or Joseph for that matter. They both bring a sense of joy to my life, and I know I should create my own joy, but they’re largely why I was able to get through my divorce and not be in a puddle in the corner, contemplating where I went wrong in life.”

  The mention of my divorce makes the atmosphere somber, and I watch Cory’s mood shift from casual to serious. He moves on the couch, and his shirt pulls at his chest in a different way, clinging to his left pec, defining it as if the fabric is morphing into his skin.

  Why do I have to be rooming with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in person?

  This really isn’t fair; nor is this a vacation. More like a torture chamber.

  “Are you doing okay since the divorce?” he asks with hesitation, as if he isn’t quite sure if I’m ready to talk about it. And to be honest, it’s not that I’m not ready, it’s that I’m in St. Croix. The last thing I want to dwell on is what went wrong in my life. But I’m not rude, so I keep my answer short.

  “I’m doing just fine.” I briefly smile and then bite another piece of chicken.

  He senses my brush-off and nods, only to turn back to his book.

  And just like that, the conversation is over.

  * * *

  “Are you going to bed?” Cory asks, popping his head into the covered balcony.

  I glance over my shoulder and shake my head. “That nap killed my bedtime.”

  He chuckles and steps a foot onto the tiled floor of the balcony. “Care if I join you?”

  “I don’t want to keep you up if you want to go to bed. I can hang out with earphones on and watch something.”

  “Why would you do that? You’ll drown out the sound of the ocean waves.” he says, taking a seat on the bench across from me.

  True.

  After he’s comfortable, he pulls out a deck of cards from his back pocket and holds it up with a smile. “Care for some war?”

  I eye him. “You want to play cards with me?”

  “Why not? It’s not like we’re doing anything else.”

  Very true. It’s not like we’re currently stripping each other down naked and rolling around on the bed. I can’t even imagine what that might be like with Cory. He’s a big guy. Really big. I want to say at least six four, which makes him the perfect height for a professional first baseman with his long limbs and broad chest. But being handled by such power in the bedroom? What would that even feel like? And then there’s the question of his penis and the size of that. Monica keeps saying I deserve a bigger penis in my life. I don’t know what a bigger penis would be like since I’ve only been with one my entire life. It seems like Cory might blow my mind if he pulled his pants down. I’m guessing from the size of his hands he’s big, because it looks like he’s holding up baby cards right now instead of a standard-sized deck.

  “Okay,” I say, scooting closer and moving some pillows to the side so we have a flat surface in front of us to play. “But I should warn you, I’m very competitive.”

  “Then it should be a good game, because so am I.” He winks and shuffles the cards, as if he didn’t just cause my heart to faint in my chest. Come on, buddy, look alive.

  Cory is not the guy for me. He’s not interested. He’s out of my league.

  I keep saying that on repeat in my head as he deals the cards between us.

  He’s nice and sweet. Don’t misconstrue that as he’s interested.

  When he’s done shuffling, we both scoop up our pile and hold it in our hands. We look up at each other and with a smile, Cory says, “Good luck. I’m excellent at war.”

  That makes me laugh out loud. “It’s a game of chance.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s all about the shuffle, just watch.”

  “Are you claiming to be a cheater right off the bat, Potter?”

  “Never a cheater, even if I’m a Rebel now.”

  I laugh again, loving that he can make fun of his . . . misfortune. Too bad Jason has the same misfortune. “With you and Jason, you might be able to turn that image around.”

  “One can only hope. Now let’s play.”

  * * *

  “Double war,” we both shout at the same time, laughing and laying down one more set of three cards. I’m down to my last card. He’s crushed me the entire game and I’ve held on by a thread. I know the cards I have in my pile aren’t large, but I’m counting on the one ten I have to pop up right now, not the three twos I’ve somehow kept throughout this game.

  “Are you nervous?” he asks, waving his card around. “Scared? Shaking in your polka-dot pajamas?”

  After I housed my dinner, I changed into my pajamas, which aren’t the least bit sexy. They’re a matching pink and white polka-dot short and shirt combo. If I knew I’d be sharing a hotel room with Cory Potter, I would have brought some indecent negligee and acted like it’s what I always wear. But alas, here we are, no makeup, hair air-dried, and my polka-dot pajamas setting the mood.

  But even in my dismay of looking like a naïve eighteen-year-old rather than a competent and put-together twenty-six-year-old, it doesn’t stop my body from heating up when he smirks at me, or my thighs clenching when he laughs, or my heart tripping when our hands accidentally touch while collecting cards.

  I’m hopeless, and I really pray the attraction I’m feeling is not showing, because I’m sure he gets this all the time. Girls swooning at his feet just because he’s a nice guy; girls thinking he’s interested when in fact he was taught how to respect others and treat them with kindness.

  Steeling my shoulders, I say, “You’re going to be embarrassed when I flip my last card over and you re
alize, I just bounced back into this game with a ten.”

  “Is that the card you think you have?” I nod and he laughs. “Nah, you have a two right there.”

  “This is not a two. It’s a ten, and boy, oh boy, are you going to be sad when you flip your cards over and see I took all of your aces.”

  “All of them? That’s a bold statement.”

  “Your shuffling is crap.”

  His eyes light up as he casually leans back against the screened-in balcony. “My shuffling has gotten me pretty far already. Maybe you should have been taking notes.”

  “No need.” I shake my head, trying to be as confident as possible. “Not when I’ve been tricking you this entire time, making you think you’re going to annihilate me when in fact, this is the pivotal moment that you will forever remember in war history. The moment I take the game back with a”—I throw my card down without looking at it—“ten.”

  We keep eye contact, neither of us chancing a glance to see what card I threw down. I hold back my smile. I remain stoic and proud that this really is the turning point, that this is when I take back the entire game.

  “You’re that confident?”

  “Yup.”

  “Fine, if that’s a ten, then I’ll stay on the couch for the rest of the vacation, but if that’s anything other than a ten, we rotate between couch and bed.”

  “That seems like a fair deal.”

  And in a moment of silence, both our mouths curve up as we stare at each other, and I realize I’m completely fucked. This is the first night, we have six more of these, six more nights with this handsome man sharing the same air in this generously sized hotel room. Six more nights of getting ready for bed side by side. Six more nights of possible conversation, possible games of war on the screened-in balcony, of swapping beds, catching his scent on the pillow. I’m supposed to be living it up, finding someone on the island who might want to have a fling, but instead, here I am in my polka-dot pajamas unable to take my eyes off the man in front of me, the man I have zero chance with.