As he pulled away, I turned, grinning ear to ear. “Hey, Brady—”
I halted when I saw his shirt, mostly because I was laughing too hard to continue. My face went hot, from 98.6 to 200 degrees in a second flat. It wasn’t the only part of my anatomy to react, either.
The shirt was white and clinging, hot as hell on him, of course. But stenciled in spray paint across the chest in the usual blocky lettering were the words FUCK ME, ETIENNE.
“Tried to convince the band to change our name, but they didn’t go for it. I settled for the shirt.
