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"Wait. You mean there are other terms for this than budgie smuggler?"
"Oh, yeah. Aussies are fucking legends."
Col chuckles. "Okay. I'll bite. Like what else?"
"Let's see. We've got ball huggers. Cluster busters. Lolly bags. Meat hangers. Boasters. I could go on."
"I'm sure you could." He seems a little bewildered. "I get the idea."
"Do I win?"
"Win?" He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Fine. Yes. You win. Australian words are better."
I laugh. "Told ya."
Col's a lot more outgoing today than he was yesterday. Maybe he's over his jet lag? All the more impressive considering some bozo woke him up in the middle of the night, dragged him out for a drink, and then hogged the doona…or comforter, as he calls it.
He waves a hand in front of himself. "How do I look in my cluster busters?"
I laugh again. "That's what you're calling them?"
"I think it's the best out of a bad bunch."
"Fair enough." My eyes slide up and down the length of his body. "Let's see what we've got here…"
What we've got here, ladies and gentlemen, is a prime, grade A specimen of one hundred percent American beef. My eyes don't know where to look first.
Last night, because of his jacket, I could only imagine the type of body he was rocking. Now, the only thing standing between me and his crown jewels is a flimsy piece of nylon, and believe me, the view from here is spec-fucking-tacular.
Col's got a great body, slightly taller, bigger, and morebuiltthan mine. I take in his round shoulders and strong, well-defined arms, before dropping my gaze. His stomach is flat, but only the top half of abs are visible, and starting under his belly button is a light treasure trail that leads to the one part of him I can't see.
But honestly, as impressive as his rig is, it's his eyes I can't get over. I feel like I've been staring at them all day, any chance I get. 'Cause, see, they're not only two different colours, but they also change colour depending on the light—or what stupid shit just tumbled out of my mouth. I didn't even know eyes could do that.
"Well?" he prompts, when I've clearly taken too much time.
I clear my throat. "Sorry. Might just need one more minute."
I glance down again at his cluster busters—hey, he invited me to. How rude would it be of me to turn him down?—inspecting the bright-blue Speedo, adorned with a yellow patterned fruit print, inveryclose detail.
"You look…fantastic," I tell him. "The pineapple print is a nice touch."
"Bet you say that to all theblokes."
I smile. "Another of yourBondi Rescuewords?"
"Yes. Yes, it is. Here." He shoves his phone into my hands. "Make yourself useful, would you? Make sure you get me, get the beach, get the sky, all of it."
He jogs back a few metres, and spins his baseball cap around. I stare after him. "Aren't we forgetting something?"
He cocks his head. "Am I seriously getting lectured on manners by the dude who spewed all over the bathroom floor?"
I can feel my ears going red. "Fair point."
"Can you take my photo,please?" Col asks politely. "And just so we're clear, for the remaining few hours we have together, I promise not to bring up spewgate ever again."
"Appreciate that," I mutter as I fiddle with his phone's camera settings, deservedly feeling like the idiot that I am for having disgraced myself so badly last night. "All right. Let's take some photos."
In my head, I'm thinking it'll go something like this: I point the camera at him, he smiles, I take a few snaps, end of story.
