“I feel like you might need a really ugly Hawaiian shirt.”
“The kind with the gaudy flowers and eye-burning colors?”
“Yes. We’ll find one to match Snowball. Cute and pastel.”
He frowned down at me.
“The pussy on your shirt.” I climbed up on him again and he transferred his hold to my thighs.
“Okay, now I have a pussy on my shirt. Well, depends on if you decided to go sans pants today.”
“Hello, I’m wearing cutoffs.”
“Sorry. Knickers?”
“You’re so cute.” Little British things seemed to sneak into his conversation. But honestly, it was like he was American with a really posh accent. Maybe he was playing it up. Then again, his accent got thicker when he was drunk, tired, or really turned on. Probably wasn’t put on. “Bikini actually.”
He groaned. “Really?” He nosed open the gauzy shirt I was wearing. “Yellow polka dots?”
“I was feeling a little retro. Even if I can’t fill up the cups like a pinup.”
“Your tits are perfect. I didn’t get to play with them nearly enough.”
“They’re not toys.”
“You sure about that?”
I laughed and hopped down. “Food. Maybe you can sprinkle a little sugar on them later.”
“Evil.”
“You haven’t seen me at my evil-genius level yet, pal.”
He hiked up his jeans. “I’m going to die in these things today. Your sun is rather hideous.”
“You’re already browning up. You’ll be fine. Besides, if you fit in my pants, I’ll kill myself.” I internally winced at that stupid remark. I was a bright one, man. But it seemed more damaging to make it a thing. I shoved sunblock, my beach blanket, wallet, and keys into one of my drawstring sacks. I ran over to my shelf of cameras and took Lucy down.
“Am I ever getting Matilda back?”
“Nope.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed a few cartridges of film. The fact that he was so unapologetic about it drove me crazy.
His smirk bloomed. “We’ll have to go with ugly swim trunks to go with my ugly shirt, yeah?”
“I can’t wait to take you shopping.” I grabbed his hand and dragged him to the door.
He pulled me back. “Wait. Need my guitar.”
“Impromptu concert I didn’t know about?”
“It’s got my notebook in it. Never know when inspiration strikes. I have to write five songs in the next few weeks.”
I tipped my head. “You don’t have songs already?”
He shrugged. “I have tons of sketches—half songs.”
“Right. I get that. I have a zillion half sketches that never amount to anything.”