Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

“Hey there.” I leaned against the door, a smile forcefully claiming my mouth, my heart in my throat. I’m sure I also had stars in my eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Byron stared at me, saying nothing, his gaze wary and watchful.

Huh.

I swallowed the abrupt, tight worry. I shouldn’t be worried. Even if the worst were true and he didn’t remember anything about what he’d said last night, all the declarations of undying love and devotion, he’d said them. I’d heard them. Now I knew the truth of his feelings which meant I was free to share the truth of mine.

Assuming he actually meant them, and they weren’t drunken babble. . .

Blaming my exchange with Jeff for the slight tremor of my hands and odd bout of worry, I maintained my smile and my strategic spot blocking the door. “Are you happy to see me?” I asked lightly.

“I’m always happy to see you,” he said. By all outward signs, he seemed to be telling the truth, his tone neither enthusiastic nor sarcastic, but it gave me pause.

If he’s happy, why doesn’t he look happy?

Twisting my lips to the side, I debated how best to initiate this conversation without embarrassing him if he didn’t fully remember his inebriated proclamations. Perhaps that was the problem. The last thing I wanted him to be was embarrassed. I wanted him repeating those proclamations while sober so we could talk openly and figure things out together.

“So . . .” My mind quickly working to untangle how best to approach this plainly cautious Byron, I decided to start with the events he was most likely to remember. If I eased his concerns about what had happened at my apartment, maybe he’d relax. He was not currently relaxed. “Are we going to address the sex tape in the room?”

His eyelashes flickered, some emotion passing over his features, and then he turned, giving me his back and strolling over to one of the room’s windows. Once there, he unhurriedly lifted the shade. “Go ahead.”

Okay . . . I guess I could start. I could be brave with him even if every ingrained instinct told me to be cowardly.

“I don’t know if you remember, but last night, before you went to sleep, you told me to let you know if I was upset about last night, what happened at my apartment.” I balled my hands into fists, struggling to find courage, and said on a rush, “So this is me telling you, I am not even a little bit upset. I’m sorry you didn’t realize I was still recording—”

“Don’t apologize for that,” he cut in, not turning around. “I’m the one who didn’t want to know when you were recording.”

“But I am sorry. I see now I should’ve given you more of an explicit heads-up, more than a wink and a nod. I could’ve just said something out loud and then edited that bit out later—”

“Winnie.” Byron offered me the suggestion of his profile. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, if you say it’s fine, it’s fine. But I’m not sorry it happened. I’m ecstatic it happened. I’m very, very happy about it, and that’s the truth.”

Whoa. That felt good to say, the truth of it setting me free after so many weeks of fretting about my feelings. I waited for him to reply to my bravery in kind, maybe repeating one of his own confessions from last night.

Byron stared out the window for a long moment, then asked, “Do you still have the recording?”

I wouldn’t lie and say I’d deleted it. I hadn’t deleted it. Clearly, I was becoming a glutton for punishment and uncomfortable conversations.

“I do still have it.”

“Are you going to post it?”

“What?! No!” I stepped away from the door. “I would never post it!”

“What are you going to do with it?” His tone sounded measured, carefully disinterested.

“I . . . I don’t know.” Enjoy it?

After he’d left in a rush, I’d watched it. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. Each time I did, I was sure my brain had given me a massive dopamine hit, and the intensity of the hit had seemed constant, never fading, not even with repeated exposure.

I was basically addicted to that video.

And if that made me a weirdo pervert, then so be it. But it was hot. And it gave me lots of hot feelings. His hands had been all over me, and when he’d whipped off his shirt, revealing that chest and those shoulders and abs—OH THE ABS!—and all that skin, bending to pull down my bra cup and suck my nipple into his mouth—NEWTON TAKE THE WHEEL!

Byron turned his head, looking at me over his shoulder. I’m sure I was bright red. “Why did you keep it if you’re not going to post it?”

His glare made me feel like a bug under a microscope. This isn’t what I wanted to discuss. I needed to get the conversation back on track, but now my tongue wasn’t working. I hated how shaky I still felt, and I wished I’d never tried to console Jeff. His behavior, when he’d grabbed me and kissed my neck, had set me off-kilter.

I needed to chill, calm down, get out of my own head. Take a second and calm down.

At my silence, Byron turned completely around to face me, his stare now searching. “Winnie.”

“That’s Fred to you,” I quipped, hoping to lighten the mood and dispel my own nerves.

It somewhat worked. Byron’s eyes narrowed, but his lips tugged to the side, and he drifted closer. I felt myself start to relax, to breathe through the remaining anxiousness.

“Why did you keep it?” he asked. Unfortunately, the question sounded demanding, and I tensed up all over again.

“I . . .” Frantically trying to read his mood and what he wanted me to say while battling the haze of my lingering adrenaline crash, I offered, “I can delete it. I can delete it right now if you want.”

Glaring at me like I’d disappointed him, he grit out, “I don’t care if you delete it, or if you post it. But I would like to know why you kept it.”

Questions fueled by worry sped through my mind. Wait . . . why the preoccupation with the video? Did he regret what he’d said while drunk? Did he not mean it? Did he not remember?

Deciding this would be a better place to start, I asked, “How much of last night do you remember?”

“All of it.”

A shock of heat warmed my cheeks, and I twisted my fingers. “Then you remember me coming over? Finding you in the salon? You remember what I said?”

He nodded, his expression inexplicably distrustful and tense. “I remember. You said you wanted more than friendship with me.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes.” Okay. Good. Now we were getting somewhere.

“And I told you I love you,” he said, his voice a rasp.

I smiled nervously, my heart pinging with pleasure, along with a bit of obstinate trepidation. “Yes. You did.”

“And you told me we’d talk today, when I’m sober,” he continued evenly.

Licking my lips, I nodded, but my smile waned as I studied him. He still did not look happy. Why doesn’t he look happy?

Before I could ask, he said, “So talk. Unless . . .” One of his eyebrows lifted a scant inch, his eyes trailing down my body in a blatantly suggestive examination. “Unless you don’t want to talk.”

A new burst of heat—this one radiating downward from the back of my skull to my stomach—made me lose my breath. “No, no. I want to talk. We need to talk.” Maybe it was silly, but after being grabbed by Jeff a few moments ago, I didn’t particularly want to be that kind of physical with anyone right now.

His gaze cut back to mine, seemed to grow impatient. “Then talk.”

My heart jumping to my throat in the face of his annoyance, I scowled at him. “Hey! I already talked. I told you I’m not upset about what happened at my apartment, then I reiterated what I said last night, which is that I’m hoping we can be more than friends. Now it’s your turn.”

His eyes were a gathering storm cloud. “My turn? If anything, it’s your turn. I told you I love you. I meant it. I love you. I’m in love with you. You said we’d discuss it when I’m sober. Now I’m sober. You want to talk? Talk. There’s nothing left for me to say.” He sounded demanding again, still impatient, and both continued to fluster me.

“I want—Byron.” I frowned at him, tripping over my words. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Do about what?”

I gave him a hard look, my temper flaring unexpectedly. I was usually so good at staying calm, but I felt all twisted around. And why is he being like this?

Irritatingly, his lips curved, possibly against his will. His words sounded like an accusation as he said, “You are very beautiful when you try to be intimidating.”

“I’d prefer to be intimidating when I try to be intimidating.”

“You’re that too.”

Our gazes held, and I felt my own lips reluctantly curve, falling a little deeper into this magnetic field between us. But I couldn’t fall, not yet. Not until we figured out what precisely our next steps would be. He loved me, was in love with me, but didn’t seem particularly ready or willing to change our present friendship course.

I tore my eyes from his achingly handsome face and lifted them to the ceiling, then dropped them to the floor, then inspected the wall and window behind him, looking everywhere but at Byron as I searched for calm, focus, and the right words.

I can do this. Stop being distracted by what happened with Jeff. Concentrate on Byron. Be logical.

Finally, drawing sensibility around me like a blanket, I said, “Fine. I’ll talk. Obviously, I’m attracted to you. And you’ve been quite up-front regarding your feelings for me. So, based on our mutual feelings, as I see it—”

“Mutual? Are they mutual?”

Trying not to dwell on his belligerent tone, I ignored his odd question and continued. “As I see it, we have a few options about what to do moving forward.”

“Options,” he echoed, sounding incredulous. I ignored that too. I would not react. Maybe he was feeling crappy due to his hangover, but I would be calm and rational.

“Yes. We have choices to make, and we should do so together, so we’re on the same page.” I snuck a quick glance at him, found his gorgeous gaze hooked on my face, his features stern. I unnecessarily tucked my hair between my ears and paced away. “Option one is that we date.”

“Date.” He said the word like it tasted bad.

I began to pace faster. “Yes. Date. That is the natural next step. I haven’t dated anyone—seriously dated—in a really long time, and then just the one person, and I, uh, I’m not sure that I’m as experienced as you are.”

“I’ve never dated anyone. If you’ve dated one person, you’re significantly more experienced than me.”

“Well, that’s another thing.” I snuck a second quick glance at him, Jeff’s comment from earlier nagging and ringing between my ears. “I believe in monogamy. For me, if I date someone, it would have to be monogamous.”

“Are we getting married?”

Stunned from my blanket of sensibility by his startling question, my attention cut to his face, the nonsensical words at odds with his forthright tone and the earnestness of his features. But it couldn’t have been a serious question.

“I’m trying to talk this through with you and you’re being sarcastic?”

“I’m not being sarcastic. I’m asking, are we getting married?”

“What? Why—what? Are you telling me the only circumstance under which you’ll be monogamous is for us to get married? You can’t be serious. We haven’t—we—Byron, stop messing with me and be serious.”

“I’m not messing with you,” he said, his voice low and quiet and hinting at a boiling temper. “I’m in love with you, Winnie. Naturally, I’d want us to get married. If you don’t feel the same, just say so.”

I rocked back on my heels. “Marriage?”

“People who love each other get married. Either you love me, or you don’t.”

Something in the vicinity of my heart spasmed. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Do I not look serious?”

He does look serious.

Trapped in a sinkhole of bewilderment and weighed down by a renewed surge of the lingering anxiety I’d been trying to conceal, I spoke stream of consciousness clumsiness. “I’m—we—we’re not getting married! Just because two people love each other doesn’t mean they automatically get married.”

“So you do?”

“Do what?” My voice was almost a screech, and I reminded myself to control my volume.

He gave me a grim look but said nothing.

I was all mixed up and turned around. Regardless, Byron was likely hungover and didn’t need me yelling at him (even if he was driving me absolutely bonkers).

I closed my eyes briefly, doing my best to regather my composure. “Look, I don’t even know if I want to get married, ever. And I’m definitely not getting married at twenty-six.” This time, I endeavored to keep my tone gentle, but a note of frustration bled into my statements, and I grimaced at how shrill I continued to sound.

This wasn’t a decision one made the morning of a hangover or after slapping a longtime friend for being a grabby asshole. This was a decision made after months—if not years—of a committed relationship, after knowing each other intimately, the good and bad and everything in between.

Byron was the most logical person I knew, the most well-reasoned. Perhaps he wasn’t quite sober after all. I inspected him for signs of inebriation and found none other than his tired eyes and the dark scruff on his jaw. But while I inspected him, something behind his gaze seemed to harden, push me away, place me at a distance, and left me mentally scrambling to catch up.

Eventually, he nodded once, and said, “Fine.”

“Fine? What’s fine?”

His head moved in another subtle nod, his stare shuttering further. “Glad we cleared that up.”

Cleared that up? Cleared what up?

I covered my face, no longer trying to or capable of hiding my frustration. “Look. This is—this isn’t what I wanted.”

“Then tell me. Tell me precisely, what do you want from me, Fred?”

Once again, I tried not to allow his tone—this time, sedate hostility—bother me, but it did. I felt even more unsteady, unable to think, and I studied him from between my fingers. Searching for some semblance of the spark, the inferno he’d displayed freely and spoke of last night, I found nothing but aloof indifference.

Needing a minute, I hid behind my hands and breathed deeply, gathering my thoughts, until at long last I focused on what I thought was the most important question. “Do you want to give things between us a try or not? Are you interested in being more than just friends?”

The answer was yes. Obviously, it was yes. If he was in love with me, then the answer had to be yes.

Byron was silent.

I dropped my hands and stared at him, trying to read him. I couldn’t. “Byron. Answer the question.”

“No,” he drawled. “I don’t want to give things between us a try.”

I blinked. Sharp sadness swept through me, hard and fast and painful, making my lungs ache and my eyes sting. A new surge of adrenaline made my ears ring. I tried to swallow but couldn’t. But I did nod, a reflexive, meaningless movement, and I turned away, stumbling toward the door.

Here I was again, confused. So darn confused. I can’t think.

I wasn’t going to try to be with someone who couldn’t agree to monogamy. Maybe it wasn’t the case for other people, but I considered it to be the most basic, for me, requirement of a committed relationship. And I wasn’t going to casually date Byron either. I didn’t need a period of getting to know him, I already knew him too well. I knew what I wanted from him, and if he couldn’t commit right off the bat, then forget it.

I deserved more, and I shouldn’t have to settle for less, and I wasn’t going to let anyone—not even Byron—treat me like crap.

What the heck? No. Not what the heck. What the FUCK?

“I don’t understand,” I croaked, turning to face him on distressed autopilot, angry tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t understand you at all!”

Byron’s eyebrows pulled together, but his jaw was a hard, determined line.

He wanted to be silent? Fine. He could be silent. But I couldn’t be, my nerves were too raw. “I don’t understand why you won’t even try. You claim you’re in love with me, but you’d rather, what? Not try at all if we don’t immediately get married?” I didn’t care if I was screeching or shrill. I felt like I’d opened the cage around my heart just for him to reach inside and break it.

He blinked several times, striding forward and stopping directly in front of me. His hand lifted as though to cup my face. At the last second, he stopped himself.

Yet he did speak, his voice was as careful as it was agitated. “Win, if I tried right now, I would fail. And I do not want to fail with you.”

“How can you say that you’d fail?”

“I don’t know how to try. I don’t even know where to start. I have no experience trying. I can’t lose you because I’m a shitty boyfriend.”

I felt like grabbing him and shaking him. “Because you believe monogamy is for quitters?”

He reared back. “What?”

“If you wanted to be a great boyfriend, you would be.” I jabbed an accusing finger toward his stupid, gorgeous face. “And how is it logical to say you’d make a shitty boyfriend, but you want to marry me? If you’d make a shitty boyfriend, then one would think you’d make a reprehensible husband. And, for the record, I believe neither of those would be true if you actually wanted to be with someone, if they were important enough to you to—to—to be faithful!”

“No, I—I mean, I apologize for—I just need to know if—” He expelled a breath, his pale cheeks and forehead turning pink. His hands lifted as though to touch me, but he rubbed his forehead instead. “Forget about the marriage thing. That was cowardly of me. But please listen for a moment. I watch people, okay? I observe. And a phenomenon I’ve observed many, many times is that it’s extremely rare for couples to remain friends after a breakup, not in any meaningful way. It happens, but it’s rare. Once that line is crossed, if things don’t work out, then the friendship is over. I won’t try unless, or until, I’m guaranteed to succeed.”

“But you just said you love me.”

“Correct.”

“Then what is happening?” Screeching for real, I tossed my hands up in exasperation. “You asked me what I want, but what do you want? It seems like you want everything immediately, on your terms, without risking anything in return.” My voice pitched higher, and I combated the urge to punch something. “You know what? Why am I doing this to myself? I knew it. I knew this would happen. This always happens when I’m stupid enough to be brave or ask for what I want. Forget it. FORGET IT!” I turned to storm away from him and out of here. I’d officially lost my temper. I could feel myself teetering on the edge, about to say something I’d probably regret.

But he caught my elbow before I could go far, stopping me and crowding my back.

“Stop, stop. Just, listen,” he said, his voice low and gravelly and sad. “I’ve already risked everything, Win. You don’t love me. I accept that.”

I closed my eyes as my senses were overwhelmed by his gentle closeness, my body instinctively listing toward his, my back pressing against his front.

“Please don’t leave angry.” His hand tightened on my arm, and he whispered roughly, “Please don’t be angry with me. What can I do? I will do anything.”

“Then try.”

“Anything but that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to tell you, and I don’t want to lie to you.”

I shook my head. “You won’t even try.” My voice broke, but I didn’t care. Even though I couldn’t see him, this current quiet exchange felt like a gift compared to our angry words from seconds ago.

He lowered his chin and rested it on my shoulder, his cheek brushing against my temple. “I can’t.”

“You have to tell me why.” Worried he’d move away, I reached behind me and gripped the material of his pant leg. “Why won’t you try?”

His arm wrapped around my middle, hugging me to him, and I melted into his strength, such a relief after Jeff’s unwanted grasping. “The only thing—the only thing—I can’t risk is losing you completely.” Byron’s chest rose and fell with a momentous breath. “Better we continue as we have, keep the other part of our lives separate, and always remain friends.”

. . . keep the other part of our lives separate.

A burst of jealousy seized me as hot, angry tears rolled down my cheeks. My eyes fastened to the door, I struggled to keep the resentment from my voice. “Better for whom? You? How do you see this working? We hang out all the time and then you sleep with people you don’t care about while I wait for you to call?” I shook my head resolutely. “No, thank you.”

“Have you not been listening?” His arm tightened and his whisper became harsh. “I’m not sleeping with or touching or fucking anyone! You asked for monogamy? Well, you had it before you even asked for it. I don’t want anyone else. I’m in love with you. With you.”

My mouth worked to no purpose as his words saturated my senses and wreaked havoc on my insides, my brain a disaster of disorder. Byron never lied, so I knew he was telling the truth. But this couldn’t possibly be what he wanted, could it? To remain friends and also to remain celibate? And for how long? Years? He was being so unfair, not just to me but also to himself.

“I don’t want our friendship ruined due to my inexperience,” he went on. As he spoke, his mouth brushed back and forth against the sensitive skin of my neck as though he was purposefully sensing the softness there with his lips, his actions and the reaction in my body totally at odds with his words.

“Our friendship would not be ruined.” I tried for a whisper, but the statement sounded more like a breathless pant. Desire pooled in my abdomen, the sensation verging on painful. What this man did to me with just a brush of his lips should not be legal.

However, despite the web of longing he spun, my brain tripped and then rewound to the first part of his statement.

I don’t want our friendship ruined . . .

I blinked, stiffened, and held my breath. He’d said something similar last night.

I will never touch you again if it would ruin things between us.

“It would be, due to my lack of tolerance, skill, and lack of sophistication,” he muttered, his arm around my middle growing lax. “I won’t allow it.”

Meanwhile, only half listening, I tightened my grip on his pants. “Wait—wait, don’t move. Let me think.”

Byron stilled his retreat, but his arm withdrew until just his hand on my hip remained, a light touch.

I was determined that he not leave me, determined we talk this through. If we didn’t discuss this now, he would run away every time I brought it up in the future. Forcing myself to concentrate, I considered all he’d said, everything taken together, removing my own hopes from the equation as well as the persistent unsteadiness I’d felt since leaving the kitchen. Focusing only on his message, his words, I scoured them, searching for his intent.

What did he want? What did he actually want? And was it so different from what I wanted that we couldn’t find a way forward?

. . . it’s extremely rare for couples to remain friends after a breakup.

You don’t love me. I accept that.

I don’t want our friendship ruined.

I sucked in a slow, deep breath, realizing we’d been having two entirely different conversations.

I’d been so focused on becoming more than friends, I hadn’t realized how desperate he was to not lose what we’d already built. It had taken us six years to have an honest conversation, and another eight weeks before agreeing to officially become friends.

Byron couldn’t shift his mental gears this quickly. A guy who took pictures of the present before accepting any change, everything for him was a prolonged internal deliberation, an analysis of right and wrong, of risk and benefit. We’d just kissed last night for the first time, and the circumstances had been disorienting, even for me.

I’d expected too much too soon and, knowing this, I now saw the path forward.

Reaching my other hand behind me, I grabbed a fistful of his other pant leg, just to be safe. “Okay. I think I get it now.”

“You do?”

“First, let me ask, do you actually want to get married? If I’d said yes, would you want to marry me?”

I sensed his hesitation, the intensity of his reluctance, before he finally said, “I would marry you today if you loved me and that’s what you wanted. But I might need some time to—to, uh, adjust.”

AH HA!

Certainty dawned on me like the sun, and I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Okay. I get it. I understand.”

The answer was so obvious to me now, I couldn’t believe I didn’t see it before. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so relieved.

“What do you get?” he asked, his low voice laced with suspicion.

I smiled. “You need to take things slow.” Why he couldn’t just say this himself would go down as one of life’s eternal mysteries. Maybe it was his hangover? Or maybe he didn’t realize what he wanted? Hadn’t he said once that people might claim they want one thing when in reality their subconscious wants another?

Byron’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, the rhythm of his heartbeat increasing between my shoulder blades. And yet he neither confirmed nor denied my statement, which usually meant he agreed. This was a quirk in his personality, maintaining silence when his thoughts either felt too unwieldy or too close to revealing desires he’d rather keep hidden.

I nodded, relief coursing through me. “So we will take things slow. We’ll be snails. We’ll start with holding hands, kisses on the cheek, cuddling on the couch—that kind of thing.”

“Winnie.” My name sounded like a strangled plea.

I turned—careful to keep one of his pant legs in my grip—and faced him. “What? Friends hold hands. Friends kiss each other on the cheek and cuddle.”

His hooded stare burned, his lips undecided whether to frown or give in to an unwilling smile.

I shrugged. “You want to stay friends? Fine. We’ll behave as friends do. And if, over time, our friendship becomes something more . . .” My smile grew, and I felt a renewed sense of giddiness as I leaned close to whisper, “So be it.”

Byron’s gaze dropped to my mouth and the hand he’d kept on my hip flexed. “In other words, you’re going to torture me.”

“I’d never do that to a friend,” I said sweetly, feeling good about this, feeling certain this would work, we would work.

We’d get there. I just needed to be patient, not push, and go extremely slow.

Lifting my chin, I felt a joyful thrill as his eyes closed, his forehead wrinkling, his breath reducing to quick puffing pants when I grazed the corner of his mouth on my way to his cheek. Once there, I gave him a perfectly chaste, light peck.

He groaned as I took a step backward, his finger hooking into my belt loop. And I grinned.

Okay. Yes. YES!

I could definitely work with this. We would try and do and go slow until he was ready to try and do and go fast.