The plan is to put on progressively more casual clothes and end with the pièce de résistance: my very fine naked ass—if Solange is up for it. And if that doesn’t distract her from feeling shitty, nothing will.

When I come out, Solange’s expression melts into one of undisguised desire. Her mouth parts a fraction, and her breath hitches.

“Nothing to say?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Oh. Right. Chapman’s latest ensemble is irreverent and simple. Men’s casual wear at its finest. The gray sweatpants sit just below his waist and emphasize his enticing happy trail. Correction: That trail is fucking ecstatic.”

I swing my hips from side to side in a slow roll. “Notice anything else worth mentioning?”

Her gaze lands on my crotch. “The beauty of the fit is that underwear is optional, apparently. Either Chapman is freeballing or he’s carrying a baguette in his pants.”

Solange’s comment makes me miss a step.

“Yep,” she adds. “He’s definitely freeballing.”

I raise one finger in the air. “Hang on. I have one more outfit.”

“Chapman.”

I turn back. “Yes?”

“I do hope you’re going to wear even less for the next round.”

“Great minds, Solange,” I say, puckering my lips. “Great minds.”

She throws a pillow my way. “Get to it, then.”

A minute later, I return wearing . . . nothing. Just in case our wires have crossed, I hold the sweatpants against the front of my body.

Solange gestures at me. “Drop them, Chapman.”

I happily comply.

She whoops and circles her fist in the air. “Yesssss. That’s what I’m talking about.”

My plan is to make a slow revolution so she can enjoy my very fine ass, but the doorbell rings and I freeze instead.

Solange springs to her feet and takes a giant hop in my direction.

“Who could that be?” she whispers.

“Not sure,” I whisper back.

Outside, a voice says, “Dean, Solange, it’s Ana and Carlos. We were going to use the key, but then we heard a . . . scream . . . and uh, we just wanted to be sure it’s okay to come in.”

No, we aren’t having sex, but I am buck naked.

Solange, without any regard for my dignity or safety, spins me around, slaps my ass, and propels me down the hall. “It looks even better when it bounces,” she whispers.

“Oh, man, you’re going to pay for that,” I whisper back before scrambling out of sight. I gua-ran-tee it. It’s a shame we were interrupted, but I’m already envisioning an encore.