The Sexiest Man Alive by Juliet Rosetti

give to be able to go into a store and pick out a dozen luscious, lacy, brassieres! Not that I want to be a woman—but I totally get why straight guys like to dress up and parade around in their wives’ undies.”
    “You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever had to wear a bra.”
    “Where were we? Oh, a makeover. Starting with your self-image. No more self-deprecating shit. Start telling yourself how great you are.”
    Mazie’s phone rang. She snatched it up. Ben’s number flashed on the caller ID. She looked pleadingly at Magenta, who shook his head. She gnawed her lips, swallowed the lump in her throat. Her hands shook. Her finger hovered over the phone.
    Her finger jabbed the OFF button.
    She felt an actual physical pain in the region of her heart.
    Magenta squeezed her hand. “Thatta girl. One step at a time.”

Chapter Eight
    It rained for the next three days. The fish were biting madly, but so were the black flies. Funny how his mind had filtered them out when he’d been picturing the lake, Ben thought. He’d remembered the fun of fishing—the smell of piney air and lake water, the challenge of selecting the bait, the feel of warm sun on his body—but forgot the balky boat engines, the mosquitoes, and the times it rained until moss grew on his skin. Wearing a poncho over his clothes, Ben kept reasonably dry, although at times it rained so hard that he had to bail the bottom of the boat. He’d rented a twelve-footer with a quiet Mercury outboard motor that got him around with barely more noise than an electric shaver.
    The first day Ben basked in the peace and quiet. His muscles relaxed; his beard grew; the tension in his neck and shoulders disappeared. The second day he slapped flies when the sun was out, caught fish when it rained, drank an entire six-pack of locally brewed beer, and slept twelve hours. By the third day, he had to admit, he was a little bored.
    Out in the middle of the lake, he phoned his parents, feeling guilty that he thought to call only when he had nothing better to do. To his surprise, the phone reception was excellent, maybe because northern Wisconsin was three hundred miles closer to Quebec Province.
    “Allo?”
Mamma answered. They spoke in French, which his mother claimed Ben now spoke with an American accent. Mamma caught him up on the news, while Ben, feeling a little homesick, propped his long legs on the boat’s bench seat, lay back, and listened, enjoying the sound of his mother’s voice. His relatives claimed that Ben had inherited his mother’s eyes, a warm chestnut brown, fringed with dark lashes. Marie-Claire Labeck was a petite woman with outspoken opinions. She had a master’s degree in sociology and taught at St. Amelie Community College. Ben’s feelings toward his mother were a mixture of admiration, love, and—even after all these years—slight fear of her disapproval.
    Finally, after he’d learned that his sister Lillian had made him an uncle yet again, his mother asked, “And how is the lovely Marguerite?”
    Marie-Claire thought the name Mazie too trite and was the only one who called her by her baptized name, Marguerite.
    “She’s—I haven’t seen her for a few days.”
    He winced. Shouldn’t have told her that. Mamma immediately picked up on his tone. “Have you two quarreled?”
    “No. Well, she quarreled with me.”
    “What did you do, Bonaparte?”
    “Nothing.” Torture couldn’t force him to reveal that his being named Sexiest Man Alive had caused a rift with Mazie.
    “Don’t lie to your mother. I like that girl. You be nice to her.”
    “Mamma—you only met her that one time.”
    “I can tell a person’s character in thirty seconds. Marguerite is very sweet, smart—and tough. Exactly what you need—someone who can stand up to you. When are you bringing her to meet the rest of our family?”
    His mom had met Mazie several months ago, when Ben, a temporary fugitive from the law, had been shot in the leg. Somehow she’d gotten wind