When I finally step back out into the room, Mateo is sprawled on his back like a bored cat, one leg hanging off the side of the bed, munching on fries.
The first thing out of his mouth is, "That sweatshirt confirms it, you're definitely a kinky bottom."
"Shut up," I groan, heat rushing to my cheeks again. He says it like it's a casual fact, like telling someone the weather. I drop onto the edge of the bed beside him and snatch the paper bag from his lap.
Inside are two breakfast sandwiches and a large fry, greasy heaven in a paper wrapper.
My eyes drift toward the bottle of vodka. I arch an eyebrow at him.
Mateo notices. "What? Alcoholism pairs delightfully with fries," he says with a smirk, as if that somehow justifies the clear liquid sloshing around at eleven-something in the morning.
"It's not even noon," I say, half-laughing as I pop a fry into my mouth.
"Technically," he says, twisting the cap off the vodka and taking a casual swig, "it's eleven-thirty. I'm rounding up."
