Page 113 of Sour Notes

Sighing in relief that I can drop the act, I slide my cell on the table and stare back out at the ocean. It’s dancing and sparkling happily in total contrast to my mood.

It’s been twenty-four hours since our showdown after goat yoga and Mia and I have barely spoken. We slept in the same bed last night but she was careful to stay on her side.

Not so much as a pinky crossed the border and made contact—I hated it.

All night I tossed and turned before eventually giving up and sitting out by the pool.

It’s crazy how quickly I’ve gotten attached to sleeping with her in my arms, and I’m low key terrified that I’ll never sleep again without her warm body curled into mine. I’ve fucked myself real good there.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she cried. In all the years of our friendship, I can count the number of times she’s done that in front of me on one hand.

The day she caught Pete cheating, she called me in tears. I left work, drove straight there, and moved her in with me that same day.

Twice were during movies—Titanic and Last Christmas—and once at a funeral.

Mia doesn’t let anyone see her cry. Even seeing the signs is rare. Her tear-streaked face yesterday wrecked me.

The fact that I might be the cause of those tears? Honestly, I’d sooner take a punch to the dick. My stomach’s been churning with fire since I watched that tear slip down her face.

But I know her all too well. I can’t push her to talk to me. I just need to give her space to figure things out.

That’s why I’m right back here today. I’m surprised this chair doesn’t have an imprint of my ass given how long I’ve spent sitting here these last twenty-four hours.

This morning, I slipped out of bed before she even woke up and I’ve been here ever since nursing an iced coffee that tastes more like watered down dishwater at this point.

I’m dying for a beer, but given the shitshow I’ve found myself in again, alcohol and I are on a break.

At least until this trip is over.

I don’t know what the fuck happened between us or how to fix it. I know what we did the other night was stupid and reckless. I’m not a total moron.

But I wanted it.

We both did.

She said she goaded me into it. Is she somehow blaming herself?

Does she think she’s pushing me into things I don’t want to do? Because that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Fuck, the things I want to do with this woman wouldn’t fit in a five-hundred page book.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her if I’m totally honest.

Hell, I’m supposed to uphold the law, but I’d willingly go down for murdering that douchebag ex of hers. If I find out he said something to cause this, he’ll be eating sand at the bottom of the Aegean Sea before the day’s out.

I almost hope it’s something like that, because if it isn’t, then it can only mean it’s me.

What if she regrets it altogether? She rejected me once already. Maybe she’s got fuckers’ remorse—like buyers’ but, well, you get it.

Regardless of my feelings, I thought we’d at least made some headway toward fixing our friendship. Almost bringing it back to where it used to be before sex muddled everything.

Although, I guess maybe that’s it—we’ve come full circle.

We screwed, so we screwed up the friendship all over again.

Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair just as Nick pulls out a chair and collapses beside me.

“Uh oh. That doesn't sound good. My sister told you to fuck off already?” There’s amusement in his voice, but I don’t miss the steely look in his eyes.