“Oh, shit.”
“What is it?” I turned at once, ready to kill to protect her.
“There are a couple hanging out of your shorts.”
“That is not a problem, mate.” More than willing to present my body for her inspection—and, I hoped, approval—I yanked the material from my hips, tearing the fragile seams in seconds. Not wanting to risk any of the offending tentacles making contact with her vehicle—and upsetting her—I threw the offending shorts a significant distance away.
“Oh, god! What are you—” She jumped upright and dove for the large bag she had thrown into her car earlier. Tugging quickly, she pulled a long piece of fabric free. This was a beach towel. I was familiar with a number of human items. Stefani’s towel had a large cartoon depiction of the sun with a smiling face in its center. Chee
