I shiver and Michael mistakes it for me being cold, taking his jacket off and slipping it over the shift silhouette of my dress. The gesture's too cute for me to correct him, tell him that I'm loving the feel of the sun on my shoulders and legs, the shimmer of the light against his dark hair. And this is the man that told me he wasn't romantic? Romance really is in the little things. It's the way he smiles at me, the way he says he'll watch movies that I know he's going to hate, the way he takes my purse from me and slings it over his own shoulder—even though he's a fucking rockstar and he
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