Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

“I take it you enjoyed the fish.” Byron eyed my empty plate, wiped clean with a piece of gluten-free bread I’d retrieved from the cupboard.

I dusted my hands off. “Another sample might be required before I can definitively analyze the data.” At one point, I’d been tempted to pick up the plate and lick his lemon butter caper sauce directly from the ceramic surface. The only thing that kept me from giving into the temptation was the fact that I liked the sweater I wore and I didn’t want to get butter on it.

Byron’s mouth curved. “There’s none left. You ate it all.”

“So I did. I guess you’ll just have to make it again tomorrow. For science.”

He laughed, and I loved his laugh, so rumbly and real. It gave me a moment to simply look at him, admire Byron without feeling like I was rudely staring or being inappropriate.

We were on our second bottle of wine—that’s right, he’d had more than just one glass—and I was feeling good, full, satiated with delicious food and great company. We’d discussed all manner of things, from his theories on the Bronze Age Collapse to why we agreed dark chocolate was so much better than milk chocolate, and I’d asked a lot of questions just so I could hear his voice.

He’d given his brilliant thoughts freely and, if such a thing were possible, I would’ve soaked them up with a piece of bread, much like I’d done to the addictive lemon butter caper sauce.

“Now that you’ve spent a week with the color, how do you like your hair?”

“I like it,” I said lightly, but it was a lie.

After a week of living with the blond, I decided I loved it. I loved it so much. The kit had come with toning colors, and the variation he’d added looked professional.

The epically awesome dye job plus this evening’s supremely delicious dinner plus everything else I knew about him meant I was beginning to believe Byron when he’d said that he could do anything. If he wanted something, it would be his.

“Will you keep dyeing it?”

I pretended to think the question over and deflected. “Let me guess, you prefer my natural color.”

“No.” His attention moved to the top of my head, down to my shoulder, and then to my upper arm where my hair ended just above my elbow.

“No?”

“No.” Byron looked away and rested his forearm on the table, his long fingers fiddling with the stem of his wineglass. “I like your natural color. But I also like it this way.”

“Huh.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. So, and I know I’m not supposed to, but I have to ask, why did you want a photo of me?”

His features grew contemplative, and I felt certain he wouldn’t answer.

But then he said, “I like to capture the moment before things change. For most people, their life isn’t like a book, they can’t go back and read their favorite parts. I figured this out . . . too late for some memories. Now I take photos before things change and I write down my thoughts, memories associated with the present before the future comes to take them away.”

I smiled as he spoke, falling deeper into my extreme crush, and I sighed dreamily when he finished with his explanation. See? His thought sauce was delicious.

“And you want to remember my hair?”

“I do.” He inclined his head once.

“Can I ask why?”

Byron smirked, his eyes taunting. “No.”

I mock-frowned, mock-glaring at him.

His smirk became a small smile. “But maybe one day, if you’re really nice to me, I’ll let you read what I wrote next to the picture.”

“So, next week?”

He laughed, and his laugh made me feel like I was floating. I allowed the sound to flow over and around me, soaking that up too.

“How about . . .” he pressed his index finger to his bottom lip. “In ten years?”

“Deal. But you can’t change what you were going to write because now you know I’ll read it.”

“I won’t.” He sounded so certain, so unconcerned, it filled me with disgruntlement. I supposed some part of me—a big part—had hoped what he wrote would be salacious enough that he’d want to keep it private.

And perhaps it was the disgruntlement that drove me to say, “You have too many rules about what I can and cannot ask you.”

“Fine.” Byron reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. Mine was still full. “Ask me anything and I’ll answer it, but it can’t be about the photo.”

Oh! Well. This was an opportunity and a treat. And not one to be squandered.

“Just remember”—I raised a finger in warning— “you said anything.”

Now saying nothing at all, he looked at me like he was completely unconcerned while I contemplated and ranked all the possible questions I wanted to ask. For some reason, his words from earlier played through my head juxtaposed against Amelia’s rant before she’d left.

“. . . given the option to change our situations, why wouldn’t we?”

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to risk it all if you want to live a full life.”

Fueled by these remarks, I asked, “You claimed once that you liked me. A lot.”

“Correct,” he said, taking the question in stride, still appearing unconcerned.

“And then you claimed that you didn’t particularly wish to.”

“Also correct.”

“Then when did you start liking me? And why did you always act like you couldn’t stand me?”

His smile fell. Completely. “I’m not answering that.”

“You said anything. You promised.” I held up a finger between us, my eyes wide and serious.

He stared forward, the line of his mouth unhappy. “It’s not as though I told you I love you, or asked for your hand in marriage, for Christ’s sake. Is it so hard to believe that I have a preoccupation with you?”

“Me? Yes. Absolutely.”

“Why?”

I didn’t have to think about the question too hard before the answer came to me. “When we first met, you ignored me. You—”

“I didn’t know you.”

“So you didn’t like me when we met?”

“I didn’t like you, I didn’t not like you. As I said, I didn’t know you.” He sounded so logical, so reasonable.

“Then what did you think? When we first met?”

“You seemed . . . fine.” His hand on the table turned palm up.

“Fine?”

“Regular.”

I absorbed the word like a punch, reflexively rubbing my sternum, and repeated, “Regular.” Ugh.

“Yes.”

Jeez. Now I wished I’d never asked. But in for a penny, in for a metric ton.

“Then all of the sudden, what? You had a Dawson’s Creek or a He’s All That moment where I showed up in a prom dress instead of overalls and wore contacts instead of glasses?”

His gaze swung to mine and told me that he found my question absurd. “There was no thunderstrike moment, Fred.”

“Then tell me, when did I stop being ‘regular’?”

“When you weren’t,” he said simply, like it was simple.

“Is that supposed to be a riddle? ‘When is a person not average? When she isn’t.’”

“No. It’s a fact. Every time I saw you, you were consistently yourself. The glimpses added together until they multiplied exponentially.”

“So what you’re saying is, my personality is a logarithmic scale? I’m assuming base ten?” Yes, I was making jokes. No, they weren’t for Byron’s sake, he seemed fine. They were for mine.

“If you want to use that analogy, sure. You—taken as a whole person—are a Fibonacci sequence, the golden ratio, when you were unguarded and not actively gritting your teeth or rolling your eyes whenever I entered a room.”

Oh yikes!

A twinge of guilt prodded just beneath my ribcage. “You noticed that?”

“The eye-rolling? The overt disdain? The seething rage and gnashing of teeth each time I spoke?” The right side of his mouth—the side that always seemed so poised to curl into a sneer—tugged upward in an amused, dare I say, teasing smile. “Why? Were you trying to hide it?”

“No,” I answered, guilt ballooning. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Hurt me? I know. I. . .” His focus dimmed, the smile waning from his features. “I just have that effect on people. You aren’t unusual in that regard.”

Goodness, that hurt my heart, and I searched my brain for something to say that might contradict his self-assessment, something that also wasn’t a lie or condescending or reeking of pity.

He held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter. At the risk of telling you what to do, please, don’t let it bother you. I’m content, and I’m incapable of being anyone other than myself.”

“Byron—”

“My point is”— he spoke over me—“when you thought I wasn’t watching, or present in the room, you were simply yourself. That’s how I came to know you and . . . like you.”

“By watching me?” I shifted in my seat, thinking back to all the times over six years that had added up to his current estimation of my character.

“Over time. It is possible to know a person by observing them.”

“And what do you know about me? Through these powers of observation but no interaction.” What made someone likable to Byron Visser?

“You are a thoughtful, wickedly intelligent, strong, brave, sweet, extremely funny woman with excellent taste in books, music, and art, and a determination to always do what is right and good, even when it’s difficult.”

“Oh.” Well.

“You’re also foolishly kindhearted.”

I felt my expression wilt.

“And make choices that benefit others at the expense of yourself.”

Now I held up a hand. “You can stop.”

“Over and over, you do this. It’s maddening, to be someone on the sidelines, watching this happen—”

“Thanks, like I said, you can stop.”

He lifted his glass toward me in a careless gesture. “I doubt I’m the only person who thinks of you this way.”

“What? As a pushover?”

“No. As extraordinary.”

I gasped—short and sharp and silent—my lashes fluttering, and then found I had to chase my breath. There he went again, saying something wonderful right after being irritating. At times, talking to him was like riding a roller coaster.

“I’m probably one of several hundred thousand. Especially since you expose yourself to public comment,” he muttered, obviously speaking to himself. “How much of a shock could my preoccupation have been? Why else would I seek you out so much?”

“You sought me out?” I sent him a side-eye, losing the battle against a disbelieving laugh. “Prior to spring break, I hadn’t seen you in weeks.”

“Ahh. But you did see me.”

That made me laugh for real. More precisely, how he’d said it—the half smile, the crooked eyebrow, the deadpan delivery—made me laugh. He was right. I did see him every few weeks or months, which was more than any of our other college friends—except Amelia and Jeff—could claim.

He sipped his wine, and we fell into a friendly silence while I considered what my curiosity had gained me.

And what it cost me.

Staring unseeingly forward, I couldn’t help but notice his recitation of my finer qualities neglected to mention my exterior, what I looked like. He’d said nothing about being attracted to my body, my face, or any other physical part of me. My mind drifted to our conversation at his house weeks ago when he’d made me steak and mushrooms, specifically when he’d talked about noticing a person’s exterior—face, body, voice, and so forth. I knew he noticed exterior attractiveness.

However, he’d also just said, when he saw me for the first time, he’d thought of me as regular.

“What’s going on over there?”

I blinked him back into focus. “Pardon?”

“What’s on your mind?” He leaned back in his chair, setting his napkin on the table next to his plate while he openly examined me. “As I said, if you want to know something, just ask.”

Hmm. . .

Was I going to be that person who fished for compliments on their exterior and asked Hey, do you think I’m pretty?

I grimaced, deciding that if I had to ask, I probably wouldn’t like the answer, no matter what he said. If he said no, obviously I wouldn’t like it. If he said yes, it would feel stale and forced since I’d had to ask.

Frustrated, I told myself it didn’t matter, that I should value his words about me being extraordinary, and kind, and strong—attributes that were more or less an active choice on my part—more than a statement about the accident of my face and body, something genetics mostly dictated, and I only possessed slight influence over.

But it did matter.

As much as I admired and was attracted to Byron’s kindness and strength and intelligence and thoughtfulness, and I wanted him for those attributes, I also wanted his body. I wanted to touch it, lick it, taste it, and have my way with it. And, thus far, he’d never given me any sign that he felt similarly for me.

Apart from that one time when we were on the couch and he looked at me like—wait. We’d been filming.

What about when he did the Opposites Attract—nope. Filming.

Oh! Or last week when he dyed my hair and—no. We’d also been filming then.

How about . . . I frowned.

I couldn’t think of a single time he’d ever looked at me or behaved in any way but with platonic interest except when we were recording videos.

“Okay.” I crossed my arms, deciding on a course of action that would settle the matter once and for all. “Let me ask you this. How much of the videos are pretend?”

He’d been reaching for his wineglass when I asked the question and froze mid-movement, his gaze growing cagey. “Be more specific.”

Hmm . . .

“All right. When we’re recording the video challenges—like the first one we did, where I sat on your lap, or the opposites attract one—were you acting?”

Wineglass in hand, his forehead wrinkled like my question confused him. “Yes, obviously.”

I straightened my spine to counteract the plummeting of my stomach. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

Grabbing my wine, I drank more than a sip, but not quite a mouthful. “You’re a really good actor.”

He’d been acting the whole time?

Byron, still looking at me like I perplexed him, set his glass down without drinking from it. “Isn’t that what we agreed? Aren’t we both acting in the videos?”

“Yes.” The word came out scratchy, so I cleared my throat. “That’s what we agreed.”

Byron’s gaze turned searching, which made me think something about my expression concerned him. I forced a smile, but that only made him frown.

“Fred. If we were not acting, we wouldn’t record them at all. We act in the videos. We’re not acting now.”

“Mmm.” I nodded noncommittally. I was definitely acting right now, or at least trying to. I was also blushing, I felt cold, and my stomach churned.

I got the sense he continued to address this subject because he could see I was having a difficult time with his responses. Maybe he wanted to make certain I understood him. Or maybe he wanted to be sure we were on the same page.

“Right. You are acting. We agreed we would be acting. The whole thing is an act. I get it.” I nodded, twisting the hem of my napkin.

“Fred.”

“Yes?” I gave him my eyes.

His eyes narrowed on me. “Aren’t you acting in the videos?”

“Of course. I mean—” I scratched the back of my neck, not wanting to admit the truth but feeling compelled to since he’d been nothing but honest with me “—when we were at your place and we did the movie lap one, and then that other video that one time, I actually forgot we were filming.” I gave him a self-deprecating smile, my cheeks burning hotter, and hoping he didn’t call me out for being vague.

He leaned back in his chair, the intensity of his gaze, his interest, amplifying, like he found this information doubtful. “Did you? Really?”

“Yes. Toward the end, when you had your head on my lap and I was playing with your hair. It was relaxing. Nice. And I forgot.”

“Huh.” His eyes seemed to study me and then lost focus.

I didn’t want him thinking too much about my admission, so I interrupted his thoughts. “Have you—uh—ever forgotten we were being filmed? For one of the videos?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Never.”

“I see,” I croaked, lifting my glass to drink more of the wine but then thought better of it.

There you go, Win. There’s your answer.

Byron wouldn’t lie. He’d been acting. The whole time. Everything we’d recorded had been part of an act—the way he looked at me, when he’d dipped me, when he’d placed his head in my lap, when we’d shared that stare in the mirror of the bathroom. Acting. Acting. Acting.

I wasn’t surprised, not really, and so I didn’t know why I felt a sense of such brutal disappointment. But I did.

The silence between us started to shift from contemplative to awkward, so I shot up from my seat and grabbed my plate. Then I grabbed his. “Hey, so, speaking of the challenges, I do think we need to discuss New York.”

New York was a safe topic, very safe. It was business instead of feelings. I would deal with these messy feelings later. Much, much later. Or maybe never.

And another thing, I was so glad—so enormously glad—I hadn’t taken Amelia’s advice and done something stupid tonight, like take a risk.

I walked the short distance to the sink and deposited the dishes, patting myself on the back for my caution. Caution for the win and the Win.

“What does New York have to do with the challenges?” Byron’s grumpy tone helped me focus. He was clearly irritated about something, probably the idea of recording in New York when he was already apprehensive about the interviews.

“Well, one of the last challenges is me surprising you on a long-distance trip.” Returning to the table to grab our utensils, I picked up his fork, then mine. “At first I thought we might do something camping related around here. But we already have New York on the calendar, so could we pretend I’m surprising you there? I doubt your part would be more than one minute, tops.”

“I guess we could.”

I wasn’t looking at him, but he sounded distracted.

“I know you didn’t want to talk about these ahead of time or stage them, but discussing this one makes sense.” Loading my hands up with flatware and serving dishes, I walked back to the sink, slow and steady.

“It does makes sense.” The sound of his chair scraping against the floor sent a shiver up my spine.

Instead of returning to the kitchen table, I detoured toward the family room and began to pace in front of the TV. “I’ll be flying out by myself anyway, meeting you there, so I’ll record some stuff during the flight. When I get to the hotel, I’ll let you know and you can pretend to be surprised when I knock on your door. And then the rest of the trip will progress as normal. Speaking of which, do you have an agenda? Or a list of events?”

“I’ll have my agent send it over.”

“Do you think we could do a few of the other challenges while we’re out there? It’s not important to do them all, but Amelia was saying it would be good to post a few more before the interview. I’m supposed to be getting a call this week about the job, but the actual interview isn’t until after our July trip.” Talking about this—schedules and agendas and plans—definitely helped distract me from my distress and shake off the residue of disappointment.

“Which ones?”

“Let me see . . .” Not wanting to look for my planner with the original notes, I picked up my phone from the charging station and pulled up the Google doc that Amelia and I had worked on together.

1- #BestfriendCheckIn / #OppositesAttract: Highlight how different you are from your bestfriend to prove that opposites attract and then dance in a circle while holding hands, camera facing up.

2- #VideoGameDistraction: Sitting on lap while playing video game challenge, bestfriend/crush.

3- #ToxicDanceChallenge: Do the dance from “Toxic” (Britney Spears) to the music with your bestfriend.

4- #AsleepChallenge: Pretend to be asleep when your bestfriend walks in, record what she/he does next.

5- #BestfriendFashionChallenge / #MatchingOutfits: Change outfits, all match, jumping between each change.

6- #MovieHeadRestChallenge: Lay your head in your partner’s/crush’s lap while watching a movie and record reaction.

7- #TravelSurpriseChallenge: Surprise your bestfriend crush by traveling a long distance to visit her/him, record the reaction.

8- #KissYourCrush: Kiss your crush or secret crush / bestfriend and record the reaction.

9- #LeggingsChallenge: Wear the trending leggings for your partner/crush and record his/her reaction.

10- #WhisperASecret: Whisper a secret into your bestfriend’s ear and record reaction.

Reading the list, I had difficulty swallowing. Making matters worse, Byron had come to stand next to me and currently read over my shoulder.

“We have—uh—three, five, and seven through ten left.” Clearing my throat, I tried my best not to notice how great he smelled, or how lovely and warm his body felt pressed against my side. Nor did I turn my head to look at him. His face was too close.

As soon as I could, I would step out of his space. Enforcing my no-touching boundary seemed like the best thing I could do for my mental health.

“The Leggings Challenge,” he said, sounding distracted. “Do you have the leggings?”

The question brought me up short. “What do you know about the Leggings Challenge?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” He stepped to the side and walked around me to the kitchen. Once there, he turned on the faucet and proceeded to wash the dishes.

My gaze followed the long line of him, the curve of his backside, the taper of his waist. “I have the leggings.” I knew we were just friends—and given what had just transpired during dinner, we’d only ever be just friends—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t engage in the consumption of eye candy from time to time.

Byron Visser was the Swiss chocolate of eye candy. I could be a good friend to him and still think he was sexy as Hades and twice as broody.

“Do you want to do that one tonight?”

“What?” My eyes jumped up just as he twisted his torso at the waist. I said a silent prayer of thanks that I hadn’t been caught admiring his butt.

“If you have the leggings, we could do that one tonight. I’ll do the dishes. You go change.”

“I thought you didn’t want to know when they were going to happen?”

He tilted his head back and forth, as though considering his response, facing the sink again. “With that one, it might be nice to have a heads-up.”

“The leggings video?” I wrinkled my nose.

“Yes.” He glanced over his shoulder.

I made a face and drifted a little closer to my bedroom. “What? Why?”

Now he made a face, and I suspected it was meant to be a teasing reflection of mine. But all he did was grunt.

“Oh? Reeeeally?” I pretended like I’d interpreted his grunt. “How fascinating. Now I see your point.”

He grunted again and turned his attention back to the dishes.

“Well then.” I walked to my bedroom. “How can I argue with that? I guess I’ll just get those bad boys on.”