Page 36 of Fumbled Into Love

Obviously, and it has to be a couple’s costume.

No.

Yes.

And before you start to argue, remember that YOU told the media we’re dating.

People who date wear couples costumes on Halloween.

Fine, but don’t make it stupid.

You can’t see it, but I’m rolling my eyes.

I fight a rogue smile as I read Nathalie’s last message.

The last week and a half has been a flurry of moments strung together by oneconstant: Nathalie.

I’ve barely seen her in the last few days, and I’m slowly descending into anxious thoughts.

Is she avoiding me? Does she regret moving in with me? Am I bothering her?

She hasn’t said anything, but it’s easy to lose myself to those thoughts, especially since the silent treatment was Savannah’s favorite maneuver.

Worst of all, I had to watch our show alone in a hotel room because we had a game. The premise of the show is insane, but I enjoyed it with Nathalie. Her face lit up every time one of the men said something sweet.

It was far less interesting by myself.

I stare at the game tape, forcing myself to analyze the defense of the Carolina Stars to prepare for our home game on Thursday, but my thoughts shift back to the stunning brunette sleeping in my guest bedroom.

Our tackling moment is stuck in a loop in my mind, and every attempt to banish it has been futile. Nathalie pressed against me, every soft curve of her body from her breasts to her hips. How her eyes widened behind her blue glasses, the color pulling out the green specks in her irises. Then, the smell of her perfume hit my nose, and it was game over, the scent acting like an aphrodisiac.

I haven’t been warped about a woman since Savannah which is not settling well in my stomach.

The offensive coordinator stops the film, highlighting defensive players' positions, before ending the meeting and dismissing us. Slipping out the door, I bolt to the practice locker room to grab my bag.

“You seem distracted,” Henry hums, dropping into his seat beside my locker.

Declan stands on my other side.

“How are things at home?” Declan stretches out, blocking my path to escape. “Messy?”

“No.”

It’s not technically a lie. The shared living space is still tidy. The mudroom and Nathalie’s room are an entirely different story.

Her shoes are piled in towers in the mudroom and scattered in the connecting hallway. I’ve organized them twice, neatly lining them in rows, but as soon as I do, they somehow congregate into one massive pile again.

I had to push the state of Nathalie’s room into the deepest caverns of my mind to find any semblance of peace. Her door was open when I walked past toward the laundry room. What I saw caused my brain to itch.

Her suitcases are flung open on the floor, her clothing in haphazard piles, and the rest of her belongings are half unpacked in storage boxes. Dozens of storage boxes.

I have no idea why there are so many or why she needed them for only a few months.

Declan and Henry give me a bemused look.

“You’re a liar,” Declan says. “I know Nathalie, and there’s no way there isn’t mess somewhere.”

I may not have seen her much in the last few days, but I’ve felt her presence in the small crumbs she leaves of herself. A solitary Converse beneath the barstool in the kitchen. A tube of chapstick on the hallway table. A hair tie on the coffee table in the living room.

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