Page 83 of Fumbled Into Love

I’m not a fan of the silent treatment.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask, unable to stomach the idea I did something to upset her. “Is this because I forgot to tell you my family was coming? It was an accident,” I ramble, desperate to convince her it was an honest mistake. “I didn’t mean to forget. The holiday snuck up—did they make you uncomfortable? Ask you weird questions?”

Nathalie jerks, brows high on her forehead. “What?”

“You…You haven’t said a single word to me since dinner.”

It’s not an exaggeration. I’ve been waiting for her to say something, but she’s been painfully silent, a trait I don’t associate with her normally, hence my concern.

Nathalie’s eyes widen, and she sighs, head falling onto my shoulder.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m nervous.”

“Why?” I whisper, savoring the small contact.

All I want to do is touch her. Every moment I’m with her. Run my fingers through her hair, hold her hand in mine, drag her against my chest so tightly I can feel her heartbeat on my skin, beating in time with mine.

I fucking hate rule two, and I wish I could burn that list.

She made addendums, but I still hate it.

Touching is allowed if the other is in pain.

Green light on platonic touch. If you would do it with Maren, then it’s fine.

Maren hates physical touch unless it’s her husband, so that rule is confined to occasional and quick hugs and slugging of shoulders, but I don’t want to touch her platonically. I want to touch her like she means something to me because she does.

She’s slowly becoming everything.

“I’ve never slept with someone.”

I raise a brow, my smile threatening to escape.

“Well, that’s not true,” I say, tugging on a strand of hair.

That’s considered a platonic touch, right?

Brown eyes dart to mine, bottom lip between her teeth. Her free hand whacks against my chest. “You know what I mean. I’ve never had a sleepover with a man.”

“Complete with a pillow fort and popcorn?”

Her beautiful smile cracks through, and I can see when she settles, the nerves dissipating.

“You’re a—”

“Booger?” I finish for her. I’ll never forget the moment she called me a booger. The panic in her eyes when she realized that was what she went with.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” she declares, rising from the bed. She snags a pillow, and I launch, snatching it from her grip.

“You’ll stay right here,” I say as I shove her back onto the bed. That’s also definitely platonic. Her giggles fill the silence of the room, and my chest warms. I love her laugh. It’s rough and boisterous, and it sends a tingle down my spine every time I hear it. “We have a show to watch.”

We never watched the episode she recorded while I was in Nevada, so we have two episodes to catchup on. I’ve had to avoid the internet and a few players on the team who watch with their wives to avoid any spoilers.

“Snack bowl?” I ask.

“Obviously. Face masks and wine?”

“Of course.”

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