“A prince arm thing,” Eli repeats. “What the hell is a prince arm thing?” Matts bends one of his elbows at a ninety-degree angle, holding it out from his body, fist against his hip. Wearing a towel and nothing else, he looks completely ridiculous. “Ohhh,” Asher says. “A prince arm thing.” He hooks his hand through the bend of Matts’s extended elbow, as dainty as a naked six-foot-four, corn-fed Tennessee boy can be. “Like this?”
