Ace looks down at his soaked shirt, water dripping onto the hardwood floor, creating a small puddle around his feet. "It's fine."
"It's not fine, you're drenched—"
"Devon. It's water." He's smiling, but wincing at the same time, pulling the wet shirt away from his skin. "I'm gonna change. Be right back."
He disappears down the hallway with Candy still in his arms, and I'm left with six remaining animals who are all staring at me like I've failed them somehow.
"It was an accident," I tell Sir Reginald.
He sniffs disdainfully.
"You moved! You weren't there a second ago!"
Sir Reginald turns his back on me. I've been dismissed.
I'm still defending myself to a Pomeranian when Ace returns, and—
Oh, hello there.
He's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that clings to his chest in a way words can't cover, and his hair's slightly damp.
He looks so casually hot I want to bite him.
But also…
"Those should be gray," I say, pointing at his sweatpants.
Ace looks down. "What?"
"The sweatpants. They should be gray."
"I don't—" He looks genuinely confused. "What's wrong with black?"
I just grin, and yes, I'm enjoying this immensely.
"Devon. Why should they be gray?"
"Google it."
"Google what?"
"'Gray sweatpants.' Go ahead. I'll wait."
He shoots me a skeptical look, but pulls out his phone and types. I watch his face as he reads whatever comes up—probably Urban Dictionary or some thirst tweets—and the exact moment understanding hits.
His eyes widen. He looks up at me, then back at his phone, then at me again.
"Are you—" He clears his throat. "You serious?"
"Deadly serious. Gray sweatpants are a cultural phenomenon. A gift to humanity."
"They're just pants."
I huff at the blasphemy. "They're notjust pants. They're a religious experience. They're art. They're—"
"You're insane."
"And you're hot. We've established both these facts already."
