Page 107 of Sour Notes

But then again, I can’t exactly blame him for looking at her.

Mia’s a fucking knockout. There are no visible signs of the hangover I know she currently has. Obviously because she’s some heavenly being, not a mere mortal like my dumb ass, who’s looking a bit green right now.

She’s wearing leopard print yoga pants and a cropped workout top that exposes the tanned skin of her midriff. It’s doing dangerous things to her tits—and my dick.

The dick I’m only just now realizing I forgot to trap in boxers this morning.

In my rush out the door, with Nick shouting at us like some army sergeant, I threw on my gray sweats and sneakers, thinking I’d be fine.

I’m not winning any mastermind awards today, let me tell you.

The last thing I should be doing is sporting low-hanging fruit with a horny, ornery goat around and Mia looking like a goddamned wet dream.

Rookie move.

I’ll be fighting the damn goat and my natural urges for the next hour.

Yoga’s supposed to bring you calm, right? Well, I’m anything but. I’d be more zen driving in rush hour traffic on Fifth Avenue than I am right this second.

“Now, class, before we get to the goat stuff—see what I did there? Good/goat? Haha—we must stretch.”

He flexes his arm muscles in our general direction before demonstrating a few arm and leg stretches. Real basic stuff. Is he even a real instructor?

Weaving his way through the mats, he physically corrects peoples’ forms with his hands. What happened to personal boundaries? I don’t want this guy touching my girl’s ass.

Or mine for that matter.

“Stretching is vital to any physical activity. We do not want you to injure yourself and not be able to keep your partner satisfied on vacation. Yessss?”

The fucker winks and slaps my back as he walks past, knocking me off balance mid-stretch.

He’s throwing down the gauntlet right at my feet. I’m sure of it. 100%.

If Hercules wants to throw down with the Wolff, I’ll fucking show him. I’m more than capable of keeping my girl satisfied.

Anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

“Wonderful. Now, if you’re all loose lipped and loose hipped, it’s time to get all hot and baaathered.” He laughs hard and slaps his thigh before heading to the front again.

Goats don’t baa, motherfucker. That’s sheep.

It takes a special kinda man to laugh at his own jokes.

A stupid one.

Have I mentioned I don’t like him yet?

“We’ll start with some easy solo stretches before moving to the couple poses. I’ll be releasing the goats now, don’t be alarmed. They don’t bite, just ignore them and continue. They’ll join in if they want.”

Reluctantly letting Mia go and walking back to my mat, I side-eye the little demon who’s been entertaining himself by chewing the edge of it for the last ten minutes, and it’s like he knows. He stops what he’s doing, his creepy eyes meeting mine in straight-up defiance.

Listen, my guy, let’s call a truce. I won’t threaten to curry you, if you play nice or, better yet, go annoy someone else.

“No.”

I’m definitely still drunk. I’m subliminally communicating with a goat, who I’m now convinced is talking back to me.

I know I’ve said it before, but this is definitely my slow descent into madness.