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God, talk about the little brother all grown up. I mean, I’d known he had matured into an attractive person, but I hadn’tknown.
Of course, Ian does his thirties right. He’s a fitness disciple, and his dedication shows in all the right places. He isn’t overly muscular. He’s what I would describe asfine. Toned biceps, pecs with shape but that aren’t bigger than most women’s breasts, and a washboard stomach fit for a magazine. His forearm muscles flex with the slightest movement, probably because surgeons need forearm strength to hold surgical tools for hours on end. As a matter of course, one would expect those talented hands and long fingers to wield a certain precision.
And that train of thought is precisely why I need to switch magazines. I pick up this week’sUS Weeklyand flip to stars with lives like mine. They always look washed out and pudgy. The fact my brain short-circuits to visions of Ian is proof-positive I need to go with an anonymous donor. His volunteering to be my baby daddy has somehow shifted my sex drive into high gear and is pumping all kinds of hormones through my body that are playing tricks on my brain. And that can be problematic for our friendship. Not to mention, for my sanity.
“Whatcha reading? Is it that the article about how the Brits hate Meghan Markle?”
I glance down at the magazine laying across my lap, open to a spread of an unrecognizable reality star pushing a shopping cart.
“No, I’m just wondering if this photo is staged or if Taylor Swift really buys her own groceries.” I close the magazine and slip it below thePeople.
The client getting her highlights done looks up from her phone. “I don’t know why they hate Meghan Markle so much. She’s gorgeous.”
“It’s that Oprah interview. Pissed ’em all off.” Kara sets the timer on the counter, asks her client if she needs anything, and sets about cleaning her area. “Have you heard anything more about Noah and Jocelyn?”
I’m pretty sure Kara’s question is directed at me, but her client answers.
“Only that the guy she cheated on him with is Hispanic. He works with her, and he’s younger. And get this. He reports to her.” Her eyebrows lift emphatically. It’s the this-is-juicy- shit-and-I’ve-got-all-the-info look.
Kara grins. “Go, Jocelyn.”
Her client goes slack-jawed. “How can you say that? She cheated.”
“Yeah, but it’s about time women started banging their underlings.”
I open aVogueand zone in on a moisturizer that minimizes wrinkles within four weeks of usage.
“Kara, you are bad.”
“Just telling it like it is.” Kara grips the broom and sasses her way around the chair. “My neighbor across the street. He cheated on his wife with some assistant. And my neighbor farther down the street… let me tell you. That baby don’t look a damn thing like it’s supposed daddy.”
“Well, now, doesn’t that mean the mother cheated?”
“Yeah, but I guess my point is that cheaters are all around, and it feels a little better when it’s the woman who bangs the assistant.”
“What?” The question forces its way out. I don’t even want to be a part of this conversation.
The client laughs, and then in a full-on southern drawl, goes on to reprimand her beautician. “Kara, darlin’, it’s horrible. So sad. My heart goes out to all those people and what they’re goin’ through.”
My phone rings. Kara’s eagle eyes narrow as she hones in on my phone screen.
“I’m going to go in the back,” I tell her before swiping and answering. “Hi, Patty.”
“Sandra, how’re you doing, sweetheart?”
“Oh, I’m good. How’s the beach?”
“Good, good. I know you’re at work, dear, and I don’t want to take up much of your time, but I wanted to see if I could ask you a favor.”
“Oh, of course.”
“I bought a couple of cakes and some casseroles from Henrietta. You know, she lives on Tapioca, in that cute little pink and gray Victorian?”
“Yes, I know where she lives.” Henrietta is semi-retired, but she bakes cakes and sells them from her home.
“Would you mind picking them up and dropping my order by the house? Ollie said he’d take it to Noah, but I don’t think he’ll remember. And it’s kind of on your way.”
“Of course. No problem.”
