“Good God,” I said as the door clicked shut behind me. “There’s a wet and mostly naked man in my room.”
A smile tugged at Calvin’s mouth. He leaned back on one hand and offered an absolutely shameless view of his ripped abs. “You didn’t order a singing telegram?”
I tugged my sunglasses down an inch—for the dramatic effect, since I actually couldn’t see shit by doing so. “I’m very curious what sort of song pairs with this look.”
Calvin eased himself to his feet, head cocked to one side because of the ceiling, and met me in about a step and a half. “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
“My birthday isn’t for a few months.”
Calvin looked thoughtful, then shrugged. “I must have the wrong room.” He stepped around me.
“Whoa, hey, it can be the right room.”
“Can it?”
“For, like, fifteen—twentyminutes. Until my husband comes back.”
Calvin kissed me, then took the plastic bag as he sat again. “What’d you get?”
“Cockblocked.” I stepped between his legs, went around to the left side of the bed, where there was a small electric kettle on a tiny shelf jutting out from the wall, and filled it with tap water.
He chuckled, asking, “Only one sandwich?”
“It’s for you.” I plugged the kettle in, then sat beside him. “But I’ll take my Snickers.”
Calvin passed the candy to me before unwrapping his sandwich and taking a bite. “Mm. Nothing like day-old, mass-produced deli sandwiches to remind you of college.”
“I was more of the chicken-tenders-and-french-fry diet.”
“School cafeteria?” Calvin asked between bites.
“Meal card,” I agreed. “Had to get the most bang for my buck.”
“I lived off bodega food. There was a sweet spot of about twenty minutes in the evenings where the owner would sell me any leftover sandwiches or bagels at a discount.”
“We’d have been friends in college, I think.”
“Except you were in grade school when I was studying constitutional law.”
“Okay, but when you’re really vague like that, our age difference comes across as weird.” I stuffed what was left of the Snickers in my mouth, grabbed the cup of ramen, and went to the kettle.
“It’s true, though.” Calvin started flipping through what sounded like infomercials once again.
“Let’s have age comparison guidelines.”
“Like?”
“Like the threshold is my first hand job.”
“Why is Ethan Cohen your threshold?”
I returned to the bed, stirring the unappealing noodles with a plastic fork. “I think if I was old enough to have my junk touched by someone else, it’s less weird.”
“All right.” Calvin ate a piece of pastrami that had fallen out from between the bread, looked at me, and said, dead serious, “I was getting shot at overseas when you experienced your first dick-chafe.”
“Only compare ages since we met?”
“Good idea.” He gave me a quick kiss.
