“They aren’t?” I asked, picking one up. I held it up to him. “It says magnum.”
“That’s just a marketing term,” he scoffed. “Most men pick a bigger size than normal, and it doesn’t fit properly. But those of us who need a larger size have to buy specialty condoms.”
My eyebrows went up to my hairline.
“That is literally the most conceited thing I have ever heard, and I work with bridezillas on a daily basis.”
“It’s true,” Chris insisted, gesturing with the bag still in his hand. “You’ve been with me; you know how large I am.”
“You sound like a sociopath,” I said flatly. “I have bet money that you are maybe only slightly above average.”
“You what?” Chris cocked his head.
“Er…”
The tape measure Brea had given me chose that moment to kamikaze out of my bag and hit me in the face.
“Ouch!” I grabbed for it.
Chris beat me to it because I had just consumed my weight in pasta.
“It’s just my friends’,” I lied. “It’s for measuring our brides. I need it for, uh, setting up my lens length.”
“Really?” Chris asked, unfurling the tape measure. “Because it is embroidered with the phrase, ‘How big is Chris’s dick,’ and it has very happy-looking penises all over it.”
“I’m going to kill my friend.”
Chris set the camera bag down. When he turned back to me, he had a knowing look on his face.
“You had a betting pool about how big I was.”
“Never!”
“Admit it.”
“It was my friends’ idea!” I wailed.
“Now who sounds crazy!” he crowed.
“It was a mistake,” I mumbled, trying to grab the tape measure from him.
He held it out of my reach.
“How much did you bet?”
“I don’t bet on such things.” I crossed my arms.
“Oh really?” he drawled. “Someone as competitive as you? I don’t believe it. Tell me.”
I blew out a breath. “Ten inches.”
“I’m offended,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest.
I threw up my hands. “That is above average while still being in the realm of possibility.”
“My friends thought you’re thirteen, which is just insane,” I scoffed.
“I bet I’m thirteen,” he said.
