Jack Maxwell Porter has been my best friend since before he came out of the womb.
He calls me creepy whenever I remind him of this. But whatever; that's part of the best-friend-code: I'm allowed to taunt him with stalker(ish) statements, and he's allowed to call me a weirdo.
Does it help that I, too, was in the womb? Right next door, actually. Our moms were best friends, spending almost every waking moment together during their pregnancies.
He says no. I say he's annoying.
Anyway, Jack and I go way back. Way, way, back.
Which is why I'm here, in the Porter's living room, with my feet in his lap while he paints my toenails a peaceful shade of pink.
"This little piggy got accepted into NASA's astronaut program but has severe motion sickness." He wiggles one of my toes as he pulls the brush away. My index toe? Is that a thing? "And this little piggy started a Michelin-star breakfast restaurant but is afraid of bacon."
I snort and pull my foot away, surveying the damage.
"Congratulations! You managed to get polish on the bottom of my foot. New record," I tease.
He grins. "Don't forget to rate me on Yelp."
He leans back against the couch, lifting his arms behind his head in that annoying man way that takes up as much space as possible. The fabric of his t-shirt stretches tightly over his biceps, showing off skin that always looks sun-kissed, even though we live in Northern Michigan and the rest of us are borderline translucent.
He pulls his arms back in a stretch and the t-shirt rides up a bit at the bottom and exposes a sliver of his stomach, giving me a peak at toned, flat muscle. I feel a flush race up my neck and spread over my cheeks as a small butterfly takes off in my stomach.
What in the world?
