Page 109 of Layla

“Jesus, that feels like a lifetime ago.”

He nods. “Definitely feels like longer than a year.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “We’ve fit a lot of fun into the last year.”

He waggles his right back. “A lot of fun and a lot of sex.”

I snort, smacking his chest. “You have a one-track mind today.”

John plucks at the bikini strap tied behind my neck. “This thing barely qualifies as a bathing suit, Layla. I’m pretty sure you put it on with the sole intention of keeping my mind on that particular track.”

I laugh, resting my head on his chest, by far my favorite place to be. If someone would have told me that I would ever make it a year with a boyfriend, I wouldn’t have believed them. But everything changed when John came into my life. He opened up a world of dreams for me that I never thought would be possible. And the really weird thing is that it doesn’t even feel scary to me anymore. Hell, it hasn’t felt scary since those early weeks of our relationship, when I was first attempting to open up to him. It’s hard to remember a time when I was so afraid to be vulnerable with him.

“A lifetime ago,” I mutter again, nestling in close.

“Hmm?” he hums above me.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

John pulls back a little to look down at me. “Good thoughts?”

“Well, they were thoughts about you, so yeah, I’d say pretty good.”

“Sexy thoughts?” he asks hopefully, and I laugh, finally letting go so I can slide out of his arms.

“Fine, you giant perv. We can go back to the room.”

“So generous.” He slips his arms around my waist, pulling me close. “I’m just teasing. I know you want some beach time.” He sighs dramatically. “I guess I can wait.”

“Beach time lets me admire your muscles in the water,” I point out.

“Well far be it from me to deprive you of that.”

We spend another hour or so at the beach, alternating between the water and baking in the hot sun, before heading back to the room to do all those things that would have gotten us arrested on the beach. We eat lunch in the resort’s restaurant before taking a lazy walk through the local shopping district. John makes sure we stop at a drug store and I realize that his hint about pink hair had been serious. Since it’s going to be a sentimental week anyhow, I decide I may as well change it up for him.

As has become our habit in the last year, John helps me with the dying that night. I make sure to always ask him now after the one time I went to the salon alone early in our relationship. I had thought he’d be excited to see my new baby blue tresses but—though he assured me he loved it—I couldn’t help but notice a little wistfulness in his expression when he wondered aloud why I hadn’t asked him to help.

I suppose dying my hair has kind of become our thing.

“This will look good in the wedding pictures,” he tells me as he works on the back section. “It’s a romantic color.”

I make a face at him in the mirror. “If by romantic you mean kick-ass and punk-rock.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, baby, that’s exactly what I meant.”

It’s probably not very punk-rock to still feel a thrill every time he uses a pet name, but I do. What can I say—John Whitmore does things to me. Like right now, watching his careful fingers work in my hair. I freaking love those fingers, love watching him when he’s hard at work on something. My man has talented hands.

“I wonder what color my hair will be when I get married,” I blurt out without thinking. John freezes behind me.

I feel a moment of panic, the old fears rising up in my chest, urging me to take it back, laugh it off. Stay safe. But then I meet his eyes in the mirror and the panic abates. Because John doesn’t look freaked out or scared of my slip. Instead he’s watching me intently, warmth in his eyes.

“You think about that?” he whispers.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Sometimes.”

He moves his hands from my scalp then slowly removes his gloves. I watch the mirror, transfixed, as he slides those hands down my sides to my hips, pulling me back into his chest so he can lower his chin to my shoulder. The entire time he keeps his eyes on mine in the mirror. “I think about it all the damn time.”

I couldn’t keep the grin off my face if I tried. “Yeah?”