Page 65 of Sour Notes

Bitch, why are you complaining?

I hear you. I do.

But imma need him to tone down the sex god a few notches for my sanity.

He’s already way more touchy-feely when we’re around people. I know he’s supposed to be, but like, he’s extra.

I’ve never met a girlfriend, so I genuinely have no clue how he’d act in a relationship. He’s always given off the anti-relationship vibes, and he’s never been overly affectionate with the girls he hooks up with when he goes out. If anything, they drape themselves all over him while he does the bare minimum… because of course, he’s hot.

But here… not only do I have to deal with inked Hercules on steroids, but he’s also taken some intensive “boyfriend course” I don’t know about.

If I were less damaged, I’d be seriously worried. We’ve all read romance books. Fake dating turned real feelings, blah blah blah.

My heart's so black, I’m only capable of surface level these days.

But just because my heart's dead and buried, it doesn’t mean everything is. And judging by the flutters partying in my bikini bottoms right now, other parts of me are more than happy to fill the void.

Fuck, I’m so damn horny, and it’s only day one.

Pray for me.

15

SWAYZE

Fake dating. Fake boyfriend. Fake feelings.

If I had a dollar for every time Mia reminded me of my place in her life, I could probably retire comfortably, buy a yacht, and sail away from all this bullshit.

I’m well aware of my place.

Painfully so, since I’m now forced to avoid looking at her tanning in the sexiest, tiniest bikini top I’ve ever fucking seen.

Glaring at the back of her head, I yank on my swim shorts. Work on emails, my ass. The only thing she’s working on is obliterating my sanity.

If I make it back home with even a single shred intact, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.

It’s going to be a long two weeks.

Three hundred and thirty-six hours.

Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. Well shit, that sounds so much worse. Why’d I bother working that out?

How the fuck am I going to survive twenty thousand minutes with her looking like that? I’ll be popping a boner every other second.

Jesus Christ, she’ll break my dick—and not by bouncing on it because I’m not that fucking lucky.

Speaking of dicks, I need to get rid of this situation fast. Adjusting my current, most pressing problem, I grab a towel to cover my indecency and head out to the pool.

While she’s distracted frowning down at her laptop, I walk to the opposite end, toss the towel to the side, and hurl myself into the preferably ice cold water with a splash.

Of course, I’m shit outta luck there too.

Now I’ll have to swim laps to try and lose it, and have you tried swimming with a hard-on?

Uncomfortable is an understatement. It’s like having a swinging pendulum throwing off your balance.

And it fucking hurts.