“What are you wearing? And whose phone is that? That doesn’t look like Sheryl’s.”
“Yeah, because it’s mine,” Callen replied with a casual shrug. “And you said to put on something comfortable.”
“Comfortable for a woman usually means a big T-shirt and sweats, not tiny booty shorts,” Oliver snapped, his glare sharp.
“How would you know what’s comfortable for a woman?” Callen shot back, striking a pose for the camera. “I’ll have you know these are very comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as one can get when stuck in your old wife’s body.”
Oliver paused, his brow tight before he finally asked, “Wait. Old? Dude, how old are you, anyway?”
“None of your business,” Callen muttered, raising the phone to snap another selfie. The wicked smirk curling his—her?—plump, glossy lips made Oliver’s blood boil.
With a growl, Oliver stormed over and snatched the phone out of Callen’s hands. “Hey!”
“No hey!” Oliver barked. “This is my wife’s body, and it’s not yours to do as you damn well please! Stop with the photos, you little creep. How’d you even get a phone? I told you to stay put until you’re out of her!”
Callen crossed his arms—well, Sheryl’s arms. “Relax. I’ve been a perfect angel. My buddy dropped it off—”
“Buddy?” Oliver cut in aggressively.
“Yeah, a guy I trust,” Callen replied, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant. “So I sent a few photos his way.” He casually brushed at Sheryl’s silky bra, as if dusting off imaginary lint.. “Nothing naked. Don’t worry. Those are just for me.”
The words hit Oliver like a slap. His face turned an even deeper shade of red as he stood speechless.
“What?” Callen leaned in closer, that shit-eating grin plastered across his borrowed face. “It’s not like I’m gonna see anything I haven’t seen before.”
