Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

“Are you guys filming right now?” Jeff sounded so confused, and his confusion—nay, his mere presence—was akin to being doused with a bucket of reality-flavored ice water.

Peeking around Byron’s shoulder with wide eyes, I caught sight of Lucy standing next to Jeff, who was currently twisting his neck from side to side. He scanned the room, presumably searching for my phone or a recording device.

I wished the ground would open and swallow me whole.

Had I been flirting with Byron seconds ago? Had I been about to make a complete idiot of myself and attempt to kiss Byron? Had that been me? And was this the same Byron who’d told me he liked me, but it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t want or need anything from me, and he didn’t particularly want to like me? That Byron?

Thank God we’d been interrupted.

A thunderbolt of embarrassed awareness had me snatching my hands from Byron’s shoulders, balling them into fists as I tried to put distance between us. Except I couldn’t put any distance between us. The stove was directly behind me and Byron’s towering body stood directly in front of me. I’d put myself in this position—on purpose—mere moments ago. It had seemed like such a perfectly natural thing to do at the time.

What the Fahrenheit, Winnie? . . . BYRON?!

Byron who, until recently, criticized and corrected me all the damn time and couldn’t keep his snarky thoughts about my job to himself. My hormones failed to realize that one evening of extremely enjoyable conversation didn’t negate six years of his glares and nitpicking. I’d grown up in a household where I’d been judged constantly, one would think my body wouldn’t betray me in this way.

“Did we interrupt a video? Or . . . ?” Jeff had lowered his voice to a whisper, still searching the room for whatever we must’ve been using to film, because why else would we be embracing?

“No,” Byron drawled, not looking at me but instead staring at a spot over my head. Slowly, he turned to face Jeff and Lucy while I struggled against the urge to cover my face.

Now standing next to me, he still held the spoon he’d used to stir the mushrooms in one hand while his other remained on my body, sliding a bit lower and further around my torso. Byron’s arm slung along my back and the heat of his palm did mysterious things to my stomach, his long fingers curling at my waist.

Jeff, meanwhile, zeroed in on my hip, apparently analyzing and contemplating our closeness. Plagued by flaming cheeks, I opened my mouth to explain, maybe to say something like, This isn’t what it looks like.

Except, it was exactly what it looked like. My brain had no idea how to explain what they’d walked in on without lying or admitting too much. And what had my brain been thinking? You weren’t thinking with your brain, Winnie. You were thinking with your biology.

Jeff’s inspection moved between us, and I tried not to squirm under his comically perplexed frown or Lucy’s amused smirk.

He stepped forward, a hardness gathering behind his typically affable expression. “Then what are you—”

“Come on, J.” Lucy cut in, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward the salon. “Let’s give your friends some privacy.”

He didn’t budge, his frown intensifying as he shook off her hand. Jeff’s expression morphed from confused to concerned as his gaze settled on mine. “Do you want us to leave, Winnie?”

Byron’s fingers flexed, but he said nothing. However, I could feel the intensity of Byron’s glare, pointed at his longtime roommate. It reminded me of the heat emanating from a bonfire.

Did I want them to leave? Yes. Yes, I did. As quickly as possible.

But how to communicate this desire without sounding rude would require me to gather a deep, calming breath and step out of Byron’s hold so I could think—both of which I did.

Pasting on a friendly smile, I gained another step away from the tall, dark, and handsome man behind me and stood at the kitchen island. I picked up the cutting board, needing to do something with my hands.

“You guys can stay or leave, whatever you want.” To my incalculable relief, my voice sounded mostly normal. For good measure, I shrugged, glancing between them as I flipped on the sink faucet to rinse the cutting board. “We’re just about to eat. Have you eaten?”

While I spoke, Jeff took another step forward, coming to stand at the edge of the kitchen island directly in front of me, the sink and expanse of countertop between us. His eyes moved between mine, concern still stamped on his forehead. “We can stay—”

“There’s not enough for them,” came Byron’s curt addition to my attempt at politeness and normalcy. “I’m sure they have other plans. Not here.”

I rolled my lips between my teeth, closing my eyes briefly to regather my wits, and did my best to squash my ingrained, negative reaction to Byron’s rudeness. Why can’t he just be nice?

When I opened my eyes, they connected with Lucy’s. She seemed to be fighting a laugh. We swapped a quick, commiserating stare. Apparently, Lucy and Byron weren’t strangers, and thankfully she didn’t seem to find his behavior offensive.

“Let’s go.” Her gaze still on me, a soft smile curving her lips, she placed a hand on her boyfriend’s back and pushed him toward the front room. “We’ll grab something on the way to my place.”

Jeff dragged his feet, his attention shifting to someplace behind me and becoming a scowl. I surmised he and the big guy were trading them. A flare of annoyance eclipsed my flustered embarrassment and, giving Lucy a short, grateful nod as they departed, I washed the cutting board with vigor.

What the heck was wrong with Jeff, anyway? So what if he’d walked in on us canoodling? What business was that of his?

“Are you . . . okay?”

I grunted. I didn’t want to lie, and I didn’t want to discuss my thoughts or feelings about the last few moments, or my foolishness prior to that. Maybe that’s why Byron grunts. To avoid both lies and truth.

I sensed him hovering behind me, and the weight of his stare, while I continued to unnecessarily clean the cutting board. Renewed embarrassment clouded my vision, and I wondered if I ought to apologize.

I’d been the one who’d invaded his space, stepping between him and the range, touching him, lifting my chin for a freaking kiss. I had no excuse other than to blame my body’s nonsensical and unwelcomed biological response. But what could I say?

Sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t want to touch you, but for some reason my hands do. And I shouldn’t want to kiss you, but for some reason my lips do. Admitting any or all of this felt like it would give him too much power.

I’d made the mistake of telling Jeff about my feelings and look where that got me.

“Win—”

“Is dinner ready?” I flipped off the faucet, using the back of a wet hand to rub my forehead. “I’m starved.”

A short pause followed by the sound of Byron clearing his throat. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Just show me where the plates and utensils are. I’ll set the table.” Setting the cutting board down on the counter, I picked up a dishcloth and wiped up the dribbles of water around the sink. “And do you have a towel? I’ll dry this.”

I set the table while Byron loaded our plates with food. We met and ate in his cavernous dining room, me at the head of the table and him to my right. It felt a little like that scene from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, except the flatware didn’t dance and none of the plates sang.

He drank red wine and I had water. I commented on how nicely the steaks were seasoned and he said something about how perfectly chopped the mushrooms were. We shared small smiles, and I hoped the innocent exchange meant all earlier awkwardness caused by my weird behavior had been forgotten.

But then, after a brief silence where I ate and he pushed the food around on his plate, Byron said, “Why do you even like that guy?”

“That guy?” I made a face, teasing. “You mean Jeff? Your roommate for the last six years?”

“Yeah. You’ve liked him for a while.”

My fork halted midair, and an errant mushroom fell to my plate. “He told you that?”

This. This was why it was never a good idea to confess anything to anyone until one was absolutely certain of the person and the reciprocal nature of their feelings. I couldn’t believe Jeff.

“No. He didn’t say anything. But it seemed obvious to me.”

“Really?” My heart pinged with guilt, and I shoveled the forkful of mushrooms into my mouth. After chewing and swallowing, I added, “I didn’t think I was being obvious.”

“You weren’t.” He seemed to inspect me for a moment. “And you didn’t do anything wrong.”

I gave him a quizzical look. “It’s not wrong to like someone who’s in a committed long-term relationship?”

“Nope.”

“You sound so certain.” I speared several mushrooms with my fork instead of scooping them this time.

“Did you do anything to undermine their relationship?”

“No.”

“Then, there you go.”

I set my utensil down. “But I—”

“Why are you so determined to think poorly of yourself?”

The question made me sit up straighter, examine him closer. He looked frustrated.

“What? No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. It’s why you accept less than you deserve.”

I grunted—deciding to fully embrace the elusive art of the grunt—and flicked my hand through the air, his questions making me hot and flustered. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Fine, then tell me why you’ve had a thing for Jeff for so long, other than the obvious.”

Cutting into my steak, I avoided his steady gaze. “What’s the obvious?”

“He’s always been really good-looking and fit.”

Eating a bite of steak, which was delicious, I contemplated how best to answer his question and realized Byron hadn’t yet eaten any of his food. “I guess he is good-looking and fit.”

He sent me one of his hooded looks, this one I recognized as his disbelieving face.

So I asked, “What?”

“You say that like his body and face—his physical attractiveness—never played a part in you liking him.”

“I suppose it must have. I’m sure I noticed at some point that he’s handsome, has a nice smile, but it wasn’t why I liked him so much, or why my like of him persisted for so long. Why? Are you telling me you’re only ever attracted to really good-looking women?”

“Yes.”

A surprised laugh burst out of me, and I shoved his shoulder lightly. He dropped his eyes and a reluctant—or shy?—smile curved his lips.

“Byron Visser, are you saying you’re shallow?”

“Yes.” He sipped his wine, licked his lips, then drank more heavily from the glass.

“Come on. You have to be attracted to more than just the physical.”

His eyes lifted, quickly moved over my face, then fell to his plate. He cleared his throat. “Obviously. But the face—and the body, the voice, how she speaks, how she moves, how she laughs—is definitely a big part of it.”

I was about to point out that voice, movement, and laughter were not necessarily external attributes, but before I could, he asked again, “So what is it? What has you so enraptured with Jeffrey?” He took another gulp of his wine.

I ignored the hint of mockery in his tone and stalled by taking another bite of steak, washing it down with water, then placing my fork on my plate and leaning back in my chair.

“It’s difficult to explain?”

“No, he’s . . .”

“What?”

“Really kind. Loyal.” I nodded at my reasoning.

“And?”

“He’s funny. He makes me laugh.” I wasn’t sure what Byron had been expecting, but my like of Jeff had always seemed normal and natural to me. Of course I would like Jeff. Everyone liked Jeff. Jeff was likable.

“He is funny,” Byron said, as though conceding a point, but then added with a grumble, “Sometimes.”

“And we have a ton of stuff in common.”

“Like what?”

“Like—and you’re not allowed to comment on this—our jobs. And why we decided to be teachers, and our enthusiasm for it. We have the same taste in movies and music, the same sense of humor. We both enjoy the same activities, love camping, hiking, fishing. We both—”

“Don’t you think that would get boring?” The right side of his lip curled.

“Boring?”

“Being with someone who likes everything you like? Who never challenges you to think about things in a different way? Try something new?”

I couldn’t help it, I leveled him with a flat stare. “Says you—who by your own admission—doesn’t like people.”

“I like people.” He poked at his mushrooms, moving them around his plate.

I snorted. “Fictional people.”

“They’re still people.”

“People you control.”

Now the right side of his mouth curved, and he gave me back his eyes. “I like control.”

I blinked, startled, my ability to form coherent thought momentarily suspended by a burst of heat erupting low in my stomach.

Something about those three words paired with the low tenor of his voice and his piercing stare made the fine hairs on my nape stand at attention and my mouth go completely dry. Either it was my imagination—which had abruptly been besieged by completely inappropriate interpretations of what he might mean by control—or Byron Visser’s statement had been extremely suggestive and a purposeful double entendre. Worse, my imagination and body seemed completely on board with discovering his precise meaning, whether that be via the scientific method or a haphazard, frenzied exploration on this very table.

Byron said nothing. Just simply looked at me. Admittedly, nothing about this look felt simple. It felt both inscrutable and demanding, mercenary and aloof, and my breathing grew shallower the longer I held it.

And yet, despite the anarchy of my body, and whatever voodoo his unique biology inflicted on my hormones and glands and olfactory systems, I couldn’t shake the sense that Byron Visser—famous antisocial genius—was playing with me. To what end, I had no idea.

Tearing my eyes from his, I ignored the swirling heat threatening to consume my good sense and reached for my glass of water. I took a large swallow as I considered what to do next. For maybe the millionth time, his words from weeks ago chanted in my brain.

I like you.

My heart squeezed at the memory, a buzz of electric sensation running up my neck. He was so darn confusing.

It’s not a big deal.

Fine. He liked me, but it wasn’t a big deal. I needed to not make it a big deal.

I don’t want or need anything from you.

I wasn’t going to make a polite excuse and leave like I would’ve done in the past when faced with discomfort in his presence. I would pull on my big-girl safety goggles and find another way.

So I asked myself: if it had been anyone other than Byron making a suggestive statement, what would I do?

Tell a joke. Diffuse tension with humor.

Sucking in a measured breath, I returned my water glass to the table and flipped through my internal joke database, searching for something about control and seizing the first one that occurred to me.

“So, uh, have you heard the one about the scientist couple who had twins?” Picking up my fork and knife, I began to cut off another bite of steak, my attention focused on the progress of the knife. I wasn’t quite ready to engage with his stunning gaze yet.

Byron remained silent while I finished cutting my food, brought the bite to my mouth, chewed, swallowed, and took another sip of water. I fiddled with the napkin on my lap and decided to take his lack of prompting as implicit interest in the punch line.

My stare still fastened to my food, I sent him a quick, tight smile and said, “They named one James Lind and the other Control Group.”

I heard him breathe out—not a laugh, just an audible exhale. In my peripheral vision, I saw him lean back in his chair.

“I’ve always been amazed by the number of jokes you know.”

Chancing a peek, a rush of relief swept through me when I found very little of his earlier enigmatic look remaining. It had been replaced by a wry tilt to his lips and a slightly raised single eyebrow.

“I have one or two for every occasion.” Flicking my hair off my shoulders with my fingertips in a look-how-impressive-I-am movement, I grinned. “They come in handy in the classroom when I’m trying to refocus the kids’ attention back to the lesson.”

“Is that what you’re doing now? Refocusing my attention?”

A fissure of both unease and excitement—an odd emotional compound if there ever was one—shivered down my back, but I was able to find my wits before he could scatter them again. “It just seems ironic to me.”

“What’s that?” Byron leaned forward, placing his elbows on the arms of his chair and clasping his hands over his lap.

I gestured to him. “It’s ironic how you can sit there and suggest that I should eschew the comfortable when you barely leave your house. When you have no social media accounts and refuse to interact with the outside world.”

The muscle at his temple ticked. “That is correct.”

Hoping to disarm the tension further, I tried to poke fun. “Have you—oh, I don’t know—ever thought about taking your own advice?”

“You think I should find someone who challenges me and forces me to try new things?”

“That is correct.” I mimicked his earlier words as well as his tone, which made the wry tilt of his lips spread into a smile.

“For example?” he asked, reaching forward, his long fingers twisting the stem of his now empty wineglass. “Perhaps something like recording social media challenges?”

My heart shuddered and skipped.

Self-preservation had me circumventing that minefield with a subject change. “Uh, well, anyway. Back to your original question. I always thought the person I’d eventually end up with would be someone who was, fundamentally, like me.”

“Wait, what was my original question?”

“Why I liked Jeff. I guess I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Jeff and I just always clicked. He felt like the right fit.”

Byron frowned at his wineglass. “Felt? As in past tense?”

“Yes.”

He seemed to struggle for a second before asking, “What changed?”

“Well.” I scratched the side of my cheek, finally feeling like I’d regained my footing and the conversation had returned to benign, solid ground. “Seeing him with Lucy at the dinner party, how weird their dynamic is together.”

His eyes narrowed but remained fastened to his empty glass. “Weird how?”

“She seemed angry the whole time and he seemed to, I don’t know, enjoy the fact that she was angry. It was bizarre.” My gaze lost focus and turned inward as I recalled their interactions.

“They’re always like that.”

“But it wasn’t just the dinner party.” I found myself musing aloud. “He wasn’t at all helpful with the videos. You were right, he was making it about himself. Amelia hadn’t eaten after work. It was thoughtless and self-centered of him to drag it out like that. Plus how he left me the second Lucy texted him after promising to help. I . . .” Sighing, I shook my head, feeling grumpier and grumpier about Jeff.

“What?”

I glanced at Byron. He seemed to be enthralled, on the edge of his seat waiting for my thoughts, his features free of judgment.

So I replied honestly, “I didn’t like how he treated me.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? I deserve better than that.”

His typically stern features visibly relaxed, seemed to soften, a whisper of a smile dancing around his lips. “Yes, you do, Fred. You deserve a lot better than that.” He sounded as though he approved of me, my logic, and my feelings.

Pleasure unfurled in my chest, it felt like opening a window on a warm and sunny morning. To counteract the sensation, not wanting to betray how much I enjoyed his approval, I mock-glared at him. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

Debating for a moment, I decided to use his description from earlier. “Like you’re sleepy. And happy.”

Byron laughed.

Caught completely off guard, air trapped itself in my lungs, and my ability to form coherent thought was once again suspended. Unwittingly, my brain decided I needed to dedicate my life to encouraging Byron to laugh. The sound and sight of it made every nerve and cell in my body buzz with something that felt radiant and absolutely wonderful.

Dopamine. You’ve just experienced a huge hit of dopamine. This man has direct access to your neurotransmitters. He’s hijacked your vascular, endocrine, and neurological systems! WARNING!

Standing abruptly—feeling certain it was absolutely essential to put some distance between me and the addictive substance of Byron’s uninhibited smile and laughter—I grabbed my plate and spun for the kitchen.

“Wait—Winnie. Where are you going?” I heard his chair scrape against the floor, and I quickened my steps.

Without turning, I raised my voice. “Uh, I’ll do the dishes. I should do the dishes. You made dinner.”

“Are you finished?”

Rounding the kitchen island, I hunted for his compost bin. “So full. Couldn’t eat another bite.”

Opening the cabinets beneath his sink, I found the compost, but then hesitated before dumping the remainder of this truly delicious dinner. Shoot. I hated wasting food.

“What’s wrong? Is the bag full?” He came to stand next to me.

I shut the cabinet. “Uh, no. I was just thinking, it’s a lot of food. Do you have a container or something? I can eat it tomorrow.”

“I do,” he said, but didn’t move to retrieve it.

Glancing at him, I found his attention focused on the wall behind me, his index finger pressed against his bottom lip. I twisted at the waist and followed his line of sight. He seemed to be staring at the oven clock.

“Do you have—should I go?”

“No,” he said, the word sharp and sudden. He followed it up with a scowl. “That is, no problem if you need to leave. But since you’re here, and we’re behind on your videos, perhaps we should film one.”

“Oh.” I nodded, light-headed as I mentally scanned the remaining challenges we’d yet to record. The next video on the list required me to lay my head in his lap.

In. His. LAP.

“We don’t have to.” Byron shoved his hands into his pockets, surveying me warily.

“No, it’s good. I’ll be right back. Pull up a movie.” Cringing because my voice sounded high and strange, I walked around him, through the butler’s pantry, and back to the dining room. I needed to retrieve my glass and any remaining dishes, but I also hoped movement would allow me to outrun the compound feelings of unease and excitement pulsing through me.

It’s fine. I’m fine. I made the list. Nothing on the list is outside my comfort zone. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

I breathed in, I breathed out, detecting just a trace of his aftershave lingering in the air as I walked slowly around the table looking for fallen crumbs. I told myself I wasn’t stalling, but I was. I needed to think things through before I filmed myself using Byron’s lap as a pillow. I needed to get my biology under control. And I had to wonder at the probability of things between Byron and I continuing to be so fraught.

It’s not a big deal. . .

At least, from my perspective, they were fraught. Maybe I was the only weirdo here, the only one struggling.

Except . . . It means I like you, but I don’t particularly want to.

I halted at the sideboard, thinking back to those moments in Byron’s room weeks ago, and a thought occurred to me. Maybe—

“Fred? Are you coming?”

I turned at the sound of his voice and blurted my thoughts before I could stop myself. “Did you agree to do the videos with me because you don’t want to like me?”