Page 130 of Sour Notes

And when I say romantic, I don’t use the term lightly.

There’s a big white heart-shaped tray floating in the pool right now with a variety of different pastries and fruit on it.

Real subtle, Romeo.

My girl’s cute little sneeze rings out from the bedroom. I guess we’re about to find out if she’s gonna kiss the life outta me or dunk me in the pool.

I’d prefer the former for obvious reasons, but we’ll need to figure out if this Wolff’s in the doghouse first.

Shit, she’s walking this way.

I suck in a breath, oddly nervous about her reaction, but immediately choke it back out when she appears in the doorway, all sleepy eyes and wavy bed hair… and she’s chosen to wear another of my fucking shirts.

Of course it’s my Sweet Haven PD one.

So now I’m hacking and spluttering like I’ve forgotten how lungs work while she stands there, looking like my walking wet dream.

Killing it, Wolfman.

“Hey, you okay? Need some water?”

Her violet eyes flick over to me in concern and I shake my head, waving like I’m directing traffic, trying to pull my shit together.

Totally fine. I definitely don’t look like an ass right now.

She disappears inside, reappearing seconds later with a bottle of water she opens and hands to me. After practically downing the bottle in one, I manage to string a sentence together.

“Breakfast there.”

Well, you sure as shit told her.

“You ordered in?” She tilts her head, looking adorable as fuck when her lips part on a surprised gasp, noticing the floating love tray bobbing in the water.

“Oh my god, you got us the floating breakfast? I saw those on their Gram and low key wanted one but thought I’d look like a total loser ordering one for myself before… all this.” She smiles shyly, waving her hand between us.

All this?

Two simple words to describe something so huge to me.

I flew halfway round the world pretending to be yours. Now I don’t remember what it feels like not to be.

Shaking that thought out of my head, I lick my bottom lip which has suddenly gone dry. Her eyes flicker to my mouth before quickly looking away.

“Let me throw on a bikini, then we can eat!” She lets out an excited squeal, running back inside to change and I bite back the protest desperate to fly outta my mouth.

No shit, you can’t demand she keep your shirt on all day every day.

I mean, it sounds like a solid idea to me.

Leashing my inner caveman, I pull my shirt over my head and sit on the edge of the pool, staring up at the sky.

It’s cloudless again, no sign of last night’s storm, though it’s supposed to be back later today, according to the cheerful Greek weatherman on TV.

Jesus fuck.

I white-knuckle the pool edge the second I lay eyes on Mia again.

Today’s bikini, otherwise known as my-own-personal-torture-device, is a tiny red and white polka dot number with a little skirt thing that—I’m imagining since I can’t exactly beg her to give me a spin—frames her ass perfectly.