It was preferable to spending any more time with him than necessary, so I nodded. Then he followed me into my room because he was insufferable. Also clearly intoxicated judging by his bright eyes and slight stumble.

“I have to piss. Can I?”

“Presumably.”

He laughed, tossing his jacket onto the wooden desk chair and missing by a mile. “See? I knew you were funny under all that seriousness.”

“I’m not.”

This only made him giggle and hiccup. “Sorry. I had too much wine. Or cocktails. Or maybe both. You should have stayed. There are lots of Russians here, and they know how to let loose.”

Ignoring him, I dusted off his jacket and hung it over the chair before calling the front desk. They agreed to send someone up with a key but of course had to see ID before handing it over.

I’d forgotten to ask him his room number. The receptionist wouldn’t tell me, so they’d come up to my room. Which meant I was still stuck with Theodore.

He emerged from the bathroom talking as if we were in the middle of a conversation before flopping onto my bed. “So I dared them to shoot tequila instead of vodka.”

I had to be dreaming. He was not really here in my room with his dress shirt now unbuttoned down to his chest and hanging out of his trousers, his tie unaccounted for. Sprawled on the bed I’d been using. Still wearing his leather dress shoes. Dark chest hair peeking out of the wide collar of his aforementioned shirt.

On. My. Bed.

He gave me a dazed smile. “Don’t you think?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “That the Russian ice dancers aren’t as good as that new hot Italian team, but they’ll probably win anyway. And they can hold their tequila surprisingly well.”

“Your shoes are on my bed.”

“Oh. Sorry!” He looked at his own feet as if surprised to see them. “I figured you’d take the bed by the window. It’s funny how most of the rooms at this hotel have two beds even if you ask for only one. I used to get a roommate to split the cost, but I made great money touring Japan last spring. But you know, these coverlets are probably covered in jizz, so don’t worry about shoes.”

Correction: this had to be a nightmare.

He bolted up to sitting. “Not my jizz. I didn’t, like, jerk off on your bed.” He laughed. “Wait, you were in here, so you know that. You would have seen me jerking off. Not that you would have just watched.”

Our eyes met, and his laugh faltered. My face was hot.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he laughed again. “What I mean is, I saw this thing on TV where they brought one of those UV lights or whatever—like they use to find blood splatter that’s been cleaned up—and they examined hotel rooms. The bedspreads don’t get washed very often, and it was cum city.”