“Alex, what in the hell are you wearing?”
“A speedo,” he chirped. “I’m blending in with the natives.”
My jaw dropped and bit back a fit of giggles. The natives? We’re not on an island in Figi. We’re in Italy.
“By wearing a European manthong?” Demetri snorted.
“Yes, dear. I was worried that I wouldn’t fit. You know?” he said.
“Is he really wearing a speedo?” I asked, slipping in next to Bella.
“Yes. He is. And I’m scarred. He doesn’t fit. His goodies are all hanging out,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You wouldn’t fit either. You’re MUCH more endowed than Alex.”
“Thanks, baby,” I said dryly. “Trust me when I say that I will never. EVER. Wear a speedo. I’d rather eat dog shit than stuff my junk into a banana hammock.”