Page 35 of Letting Go at 40

Confused by the subtle stirring inside me, I mumble my gratitude and take the flowers from him. I lift the fall arrangement to my nose, hoping to rid the scent of him whirling up more memories of how close we were, pressed together, fingers clenching, bodies grinding. The attempt at distraction is a failure.

Mason moves forward and a roar of his name is exclaimed. I had no idea he was coming. I should have extended an invitation to him myself. He deserved to be here. This was his family of friends.

“May-son.” His name was emphasized by Logan.

“Mason?” Surprise rings in Zack’s voice, matching my own shock.

“Well, well. Mason.” The seductive tone of my sister purring his name does not settle well with me.

Hugs happen. Backs are clapped. And Mason falls into the chatter of our gathering, as he should. He works with these men. He’s been friends with them for decades.

I’m the one with an issue here. When there isn’t an issue. Because nothing happened.

Because of Mason’s history with women, it seems easier for him to ignore the elephant in the room. Or me. I’m the elephant in a silky wrap dress.

Drinks are poured and the volume in the room increases. Knowing I can’t sit still, or I’ll think too much, I stand behind the large kitchen island, continuing to check on the turkey, double check the mash potato casserole, and begin making cornbread muffins.

“Watching him with a baby is making my ovaries weep.” Amelia’s voice turns my head and I catch a glimpse of Mason holding baby Ben. To my surprise, he looks comfortable holding a four-month-old, which I wouldn’t have expected from him.

There have been too many things I haven’t expected of Mason Becker.

“Stop ogling him.” My face heats as I refocus on the bowl in my hand, spinning the metal container as I pummel the cornbread mixture with a spatula. Mason was rocking a suit jacket when he walked in but he’s since removed the jacket, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, pressing them above his elbows.

My sister hums in appreciation. “Arm porn and baby holding is a lethal combination.”

“You’re objectifying him,” I warn my sister.

“Mason doesn’t mind if I objectify him.” Amelia winks at me. She’s a wannabe powerhouse with strong opinions about women and intelligence versus the female body as a climb-the-corporate-ladder tool. Still, she isn’t shy about appreciating the male form.

“How would you like someone to objectify you?”

Amelia is feminism personified. She wants to break glass ceilings, open her own doors, and rule the world. I’m the opposite. When we were kids, I longed for someone to love me and someone I could love in return. He would take care of me, and I’d do the same for him. We’d have a nice house and raise our children. I wanted what my parents had, and I had it. Mostly.

“Please, let someone objectify me,” Amelia drones, leaning her hip into the cabinet beside me. “I can’t remember the last time I had sex.”

I pause in whirling the spatula around the inside of the mixing bowl.

I can hardly remember sex. While I expected to retain the memories of Ben and I together indefinitely, there has been something lacking in reminiscing. I can’t quite recall the feel of his hands on me. The way his mouth formed with mine. Or even how it felt to have him inside me.

The thought has me peeking over my shoulder one more time at the last person who did touch my body. The feel of his hands is like a ghost on my skin. The squeeze of my breast. The pressure between my thighs. The heat of his dick in my hand.

The spatula slips from the bowl, splattering cornbread mixture into the air and against the countertop.

“Whoa,” Amelia cries out, reaching for a towel to wipe up the mess I’ve made. I glance down at myself, noticing I’ve splashed mix on the front of my dress.

“Shit.” I tug the towel out of Amelia’s hand and swipe at my dress. Of course, it’s right between my breasts and I pull the top forward to rub the mess which only grows larger. For some reason, I glance over my shoulder once more, catching Mason looking in our direction.

Those deep blue eyes that are different, piercing and intent, hold heat like I’ve never seen.

My skin prickles. A slow pulse beats down low. I fight the sudden arousal, demanding my body to stop reacting to him.

He’s simply looking toward the kitchen area.

But as I smooth the towel over my top, slowing in my attention to the spill at my chest, I can’t seem to pull my gaze away from him. He lifts a beer bottle, taking his time to bring it to his pouty lips. His gaze doesn’t leave my direction. His brown hair glows copper. The corner of his mouth curls upward as he places the lip of the bottle against his. One brow hitches as he tips back his beer. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“I just had an orgasm,” my sister whispers beside me, and I quickly turn my head in her direction, tugging myself free from my own ogling of Mason. Amelia’s bottom lip hangs open. Her fingers tug at the collar of her dress. Her eyes are trained forward, focused on something in the sitting area.

Or rather someone.