Page 64 of Sour Notes
“Fake dating,” I toss out, because maybe we both need the reminder.
“I’m aware, Mia.”
Poof.
All traces of his mischievous smile slip away as his face settles back into the rigid, cold mask I’ve gotten used to seeing for the better part of the last year.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem.
Okay, fine, it’s definitely my fault.
I totally get that.
Apparently, I blink and turn into the fun police.
“I’m s—”
“I’ll t—”
“You go.” I nod at him to continue so we can get this over with and stop standing here awkwardly.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa. You take the bed.” He jerks his head in the direction of a gray sectional tucked in the opposite corner of the room. I hadn’t even noticed that in my race to get out here, but it looks a little small for a guy his size.
“You sure? I don’t mind sleeping on that. I’m smaller, and we know I can sleep anywhere.”
“No chance, Mia.”
“Umm, okay, thanks. Do you mind if I catch up on some work?”
“Why would I mind? I’m not your boyfriend, as you’re always so quick to point out.” The muscle in his jaw ticks. “I’m sure as shit not your keeper.” He pulls his shirt over his head.
Soooooo, I guess that’s settled then.
“Do whatever the fuck you want, Mia. I’m going for a swim.”
I wince as he stalks past me, disappearing inside.
Damn, I really pissed him off with the fake line. Even though it’s the freakin’ truth. There’s nothing real about us.
Bikini on, laptop in hand, I flop on the pool bed, fully intending to work—maybe work on my tan a tiny bit too—but I lose minutes of my life trying to connect my laptop to the hotel Wi-Fi. Why does every hotel make it stupidly complicated?
First name, birthday, reason for stay, confirm email, confirm passcode.
Fuck me, do I have to offer up my firstborn just to answer some work emails?
A splash draws my attention away from the annoying spinning hourglass and—
Sweet baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m pretty sure a god fell out of the sky and crash-landed in our pool.
Swayze slowly stands up, pushing wet hair off his forehead, and the water streaming down his inked wet muscles makes him glisten in the sun.
He’s glittering, like a damn vampire straight out of Twilight, but hotter.
Waaaaaay hotter.
Like, drool-worthy. A valid concern, given the suspicious wet drop that just hit my arm.
You know that David Gandy Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue Advert? If you don’t, do yourself a favor and look that up, then multiply it by one hundred. That’s what I’m dealing with right now.
