“I’m not saying you have to marry him. I’m just saying you could pull a Big Chill. Pick three guys, sleep with each, and then voila, baby.”
The Big Chill was a popular movie in the early eighties, released a few years after my sister-in-law was born, but she’s obsessed with all things from that decade even though she was an infant back then.
“I am not picking three random men to sleep with in hopes they give me a baby,” I mutter. However, it wasn’t an entirely awful idea. My baby plans hadn’t been well-thought-out yet. It was just a thought.
I’d like to have a baby.
When Mason walks into the kitchen with his hair artfully styled in an I-just-ran-my-fingers-through-these-acorn-colored-locks way, the Big Chill idea has some merit. Mason also has bright blue eyes, which stand out against his tanned skin. If my child inherited his genes, that would be one beautiful baby, but Mason isn’t the friend of Ben’s who had my interest in the past.
“Speck,” Mason calls out, reminding me of my childhood nickname from him. A speck of dust. Ben would argue it was short for spectacles because I wore thick glasses, but my brother was only being nice. It could have been worse, I suppose. Mason could have called me testicles.
Mason walks to me first, hugging me with a firm back slap like I’m one of the guys. Next, he gives a wrist-flip wave at Anna before slipping his hands into the pockets of his shorts. He never touches her, and I’ve always thought it strange. Anna jokes he only touches women he can grope, and as he considers Anna a sister with his best friend mister, he doesn’t reach for her.
That sensation of something off about Mason ripples over me and reminds me why he should not be a candidate for baby-making. Not that I’m considering baby-making with any of the clowns joining us, but I am growing older, as my mother likes to point out, and the selection of available men in my life is slim.
Mason swipes his fingers through that luscious hair, disturbing the curls along his neck and over his ears. The motion strikes me as anxious, but I can’t imagine what Mason and his playboy good looks would ever be nervous about.
A holler of greeting notifies us another friend has entered the house, and Anna and I look at one another.
“Zack,” we call out together. Zack Weller is not eligible for the three men list Anna suggested as he’s currently married, even though we all hope he divorces. It’s not a nice thought, but his wife really is a bitch. As Zack is an intelligent man, there would be merit to him as a potential sperm donor. He’d offer brains over brawn though he’s equally as attractive as Mason in a more business-suit porn, preppy weekender kind of way.
As I glance up from my spot near the island, I watch as Zack enters the kitchen area with another man to his right.
“I didn’t know Zack was bringing a friend.” As I speak to Anna, my eyes narrow.
“A friend?” Anna chuckles. “That’s Logan.”
Logan Anders?
“What?” I choke. Logan does not look like the man standing beside Zack. For one, this man’s dark hair is professionally cut and almost styled. The Logan I remember, who had a babyish face as a young man, now sports facial hair which is more than scruff but less than a beard shaved to perfection. He smiles over at Ben, and two damn dimples the size of lighthouse beams blind me, and he’s not even looking at me. His body is not what I remember either. He’s filled out differently from the college boy who used to be overweight. He’s solid in places I can see, like his biceps bulging under a tee and thighs in tight jeans, which leads me to imagine he’s thick in other places I cannot see.
Do not consider the potential.
When the boys were in college, Logan was another friend of Ben’s who tortured me for reasons completely opposite Mason. His teasing nature wasn’t from dislike as much as it was a part of his personality, and I had the biggest crush on Logan. The biggest. I wasn’t slim myself as a child, and I considered our similar physiques a good reason for Logan and me to be considered a good match. However, he only saw me as Ben’s little sister and proved it one time to my complete mortification. He wanted beautiful, skinny women and typically got them because of his winning personality. He was funny. He knew how to flirt. He was also incredibly sweet.
When did he get so hot?
“That’s Logan?” My voice rings a little too loud and with too much startled exaggeration.
“Yes,” Anna hisses, turning to me with warning eyes to lower my voice. “He’s worked really hard to lose weight, and I think he looks great.”
Great is an understatement. He’s smokin’. He’s hotter than hot. He’s the sun only rises for me hot. Unfortunately, Logan Anders will never look at me that way. I’ll never be the sun at the center of his universe. I’ll always be Ben’s little sister. Speck.
Continue reading: Living at 40
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