“Hardly old,” Hendrix argued as he settled into the chair.
“Twice your age.”
“Bullshit. Pardon my language.” Hendrix sat rather carelessly, but didn’t ask for pardoning regarding that.
“I’m nearly fifty,” Robin told him, sitting up straighter to flatten out his pooch. Why hadn’t he put on a shirt?
“Fifty?” Hendrix offered a look of disbelief.
“Well, I’m over forty-five. And you?” Robin asked.
“Thirty-one. Almost thirty-two.” A pair of fingers illustrated the adjustment. “If you round down and I round up…” Hendrix ran a hand through his wild, wet curls. “We’re practically the same age.”
Robin grinned. “It doesn’t work that way. You get to round down. I have to round up.”
“Says who?”
“Fourth-grade math, I’m afraid.”
The song stopped, the second track since the one about the content
