Page 89 of Sour Notes

He kicks back, entirely unconcerned by the platform shaking, and just scrolls his phone.

I glare at him pointedly, so he turns his head toward me slowly, looking straight at me over his RayBans, his lips kicking up in a wicked smirk.

“These things are for fucking, Mia. This is a honeymoon hotel. I’m sure it can handle me parking my ass.”

Well. I. Never.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. I’m positively scandalized. Where are my pearls? I need something to clutch.

Clearly, I’ve binge watched a little too much Bridgerton lately.

Okay, let’s be real, I’m actually not. I just wasn’t prepared for him to throw out fucking on the freakin’ sun lounger so casually at ten in the morning.

He’s full of surprises on this trip, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.

Those mental images aren’t exactly helpful when I’m trying to drum up what not to do on dates. If this were a real date, I’m pretty sure that would do nicely.

Although… they disinfect these right?

“Oh nice, way to go reminding me of what bodily fluids we could be sitting on right now. Thanks, dickhead.”

I stick my tongue out at him like the big girl I am, and ignore his chuckle. Eyeing the towel I’m sitting on warily, I turn back to my laptop.

Let’s try this again, shall we?

10. Don’t sit beside your ridiculously hot bestie while writing about first dates. It won’t go well. You’ll probably drool. The end.

Nailed it.

He chuckles a couple more times, and it’s getting kinda annoying at this point.

“What’s so funny, wise guy? I’m supposed to be working, remember?” I shoot a mock glare his way, but he probably can’t see it behind my sunglasses.

“Just reading your Dickonomics article. This is great, Mia. So fucking funny.” He grins, waving his phone screen in front of me.

Wait. What?

He’s reading my article?

On email?

As in, he’s a subscriber?

My jaw drops while I stare at his smiling face.

He leans forward and tucks his index finger under my chin, slowly closing my mouth, the pad of his thumb caressing my bottom lip softly, before it falls away.

What is happening right now?

Settling back again, his eyes swivel back to his phone, totally engrossed in my words, the sight of him blurring as tears start to burn my eyes. I’ve honestly never been more thankful for the sunglasses hiding my face because the last thing I need to be doing is crying over this. Swayze will think I’ve entirely lost it.

But seriously, how is this real?

Pete wanted me to quit—I’m not even sure he took the time to read more than a passing headline, and even that was met with derogatory remarks—but Swayze subscribes?

I stay silent a beat longer, forcing myself to swallow past the lump of emotion stealing my breath. I can’t afford to get swept away in fantasies, no matter how good they seem.

He isn’t really mine.