The next morning when Colby stumbles down the stairs into their kitchen, disheveled and yawning, he swears he can still feel sand grate in sensitive spots he’d rather not think of at that early hour. On the landing he stops to adjust his boxers, taking a moment to scratch his balls, when he hears his cousin make a disgusting noise. “Ugh, Colby! You’re practically naked.”
“Am not,” he murmurs, stifling another yawn as he rubs his hands over his bare chest. True, he’s not wearing much, but the boxers count for something.
He opens an eye and squints at Megan, who stands by the kitchen sink already dressed in her volleyball outfit, a pair of tight biker shorts and what looks like a sports bra, both black with bright teal accents. She’s rubbing suntan oil liberally over her arms and a pair of
