Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

“Oh God! Sorry. Sorry!” I yelled through the now closed door. Backing up and spinning in a circle, I blinked furiously against the image of a mostly naked Byron branded on my brain.

Black underwear. He wore black underwear. Not boxers. Not boxer briefs. Black underwear with a gray waistband. File that under things I never wanted or needed to know.

And those thighs . . .

Chest full of heat, agitation, and shards of embarrassment-tinted glass, I pushed away the image of his muscular thighs and rushed forward, opening another random door on the right. The interior of the room looked like an office, but the lights were off. I couldn’t be certain. Regardless, it definitely wasn’t a bathroom.

“Darn it,” I whispered, spinning again and counting the doors off the landing. Where is the godforsaken bathroom?! There were seven doors and what looked like two hallways leading to more doors. Every single one of them was closed.

That is, they were all closed until door number one—the door I’d tried first—opened and Byron stepped out. His hands hovered at his waist as though he’d just finished pulling up the dark gray pajama pants he now wore. No shirt was in sight.

GREAT.

“Sorry,” I said by way of greeting and averted my eyes from his sculpted chest, a renewed and fiercer wave of heat pressing down on me. My cheeks had to be as red as my lipstick by now.

Obviously, I’ve seen naked male chests before, lots of them, and all shapes, colors, and sizes. I’ve been to the beach. I watch movies and teen dramas. I’d even seen Byron’s naked male chest before—when he did the shirtless interview that one time for the magazine.

But I’d never seen Byron’s naked chest live. Never close. Never in person. Never . . . there. Within touching distance.

Not that there will be any touching. I stared at the tufted carpet beneath my shoes and brought my hand to my forehead. Why am I even thinking of touching? There will be no touching!

“Hello.” His deep, rumbly voice held a suggestion of amusement. “Lost?”

“Sorry. I’m looking for the bathroom. Amelia said it was on the right. Sorry.” I gestured vaguely to the doors on the right side of the landing.

“There’s a bathroom off my room.”

I peeked at him, found his eyes fastened to my face, his expression enigmatic but not quite neutral. My stomach twisted. “Sorry, but the only bathroom on this level is off your room?”

“No. There are seven on this level.” He lifted his chin toward several doors in turn. “Each bedroom has an en suite bathroom. Amelia must’ve meant that one over there.” He pointed to a door on the left, nearest the grand staircase. “It’s the only one accessible from the landing.”

“Oh.” I straightened. “I thought it was on the right. Sorry.”

“Depends on which stairs you take.” His eyes remained hooked on mine, held, suspending the air in my lungs. “She probably thought you were taking the front stairs.”

“I see. Thanks. Sorry.” Irritated by how breathless that came out, I gave him a forced smile and darted for the door he’d indicated, needing to free myself from the hypnotic sight of his abdominal muscles.

But before I’d made it to the bathroom, he called to my back, “You apologize too much.”

His words brought me up short and I half turned, frowning at him over my shoulder. “Pardon me?”

Byron had shoved his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. “You apologize when you have nothing to be sorry for.” Tone even, like we were discussing the weather rather than a critique of my verbal habits, his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “You shouldn’t do that.”

I gave my head a quick, incredulous shake and continued to the bathroom, saying nothing but feeling like an absolute dolt, certain my cheeks were flaming red. Why did he have to do that to me? Why—on the rare occasion we shared the same space—was he always telling me what I should and shouldn’t say? And why did I let it bother me so much?

Anxious to escape, I closed the door behind me before I’d bothered to flick on the light. I was flustered and required a moment or two to find the switch, during which I mumbled to myself about rude people and dinner parties and houses with too many doors.

Once the switch finally clicked on, I did my business while still wearing my mighty scowl, making myself a promise that I would never apologize to Byron again. And I would never come to this house again. I had no reason to come to this house ever again.

There. It was decided.

I’d just finished washing my hands when I made myself another promise, namely that I wouldn’t be doing the romance challenges. Not with anyone, and definitely not with Byron Visser.

“I don’t need him. I’ll do the Toxic Dance Challenge by myself. And I’ll do my review of lip stains and see how many new followers I get.” I reached for the door. “Maybe I’ll even go over the science and technology behind lip stains and why they—AH!”

“There was no graceful way to do that,” Byron said, hovering outside the bathroom.

I glanced behind me. Was he talking about me going pee? “No graceful way to do what?”

“Wait for you.”

“You’re waiting for me?” I turned my head to the side, peering at him through the corner of my eye. “Did I use the bathroom wrong?”

The side of his mouth tugged the merest scant millimeter upward. “New York. The Jupiter Awards. We need to discuss logistics.”

I stared at him, my brain sluggishly reminding me that I had indeed agreed to accompany this shirtless manifestation of supreme irritation and intimidation to the Jupiter Awards and on a trip to New York. I sighed, exhaling despair. As we’d once again proven during the last five minutes, we couldn’t spend any length of time in the same space without me becoming flustered by his mere presence.

But I’d promised. So . . .

“Okay. You’re right.” Resigned to my fate, I sighed again. “Go ahead. Discuss.”

Gaze narrowing, the slight curve of his mouth flattened. “You changed your mind? About our agreement?”

Usually at this point I’d try to pacify the person, sacrificing my own comfort in the long or short term in order to avoid confrontation. But I was no longer in the mood to be polite tonight, so I said, “I don’t know.”

Byron lifted his chin, absorbing this information. “That’s why you didn’t call me or follow up on the deal.”

I stared at him, caught.

“To be clear, you didn’t call me, right?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I thought there was something wrong with my phone,” he muttered, looking distracted.

“If you thought there was something wrong with your phone, you could’ve called me and checked.”

“No.” Byron stepped away from the door and turned, giving me a view of his muscular back as he rolled his broad shoulders and strolled across the landing.

“What? Why not?” I trailed after him, swallowing an inexplicable excess of saliva as my gaze dropped to his very round backside and he strolled through the door to his bedroom.

Byron walked the length of the big room and stopped at a green laundry hamper next to the bed. “That’s not part of our agreement.”

“What does that mean?” Without consciously meaning to do so, I noticed and documented the cozy furnishings of his bedroom—two barrister bookcases in the corner filled with ancient-looking tomes, a big, cushy brown leather sofa nearby facing a leaded glass window that likely had an excellent view of the Cascades during daylight, a substantial tiger oak craftsman-style full- or queen-sized bedframe with a plain white feather duvet on top, two navy pillows, the bed unmade. On either side of the sturdy frame were matching tiger oak craftsman nightstands, just as substantial. The left side was cluttered with books, a lamp, a tissue box, and the right nightstand was completely bare.

The walls were plain white, but the picture rails, trim, and baseboards had never been painted, the original mahogany favored by Seattle homebuilders in the early nineteen hundreds. But he did have art on his walls, original-looking oil paintings and signed prints, all hanging from the picture rails. One in particular snagged my notice. It was of a woman at rest, reading a book, and—

“I’m not calling you.” Byon’s flat statement punctured my snoopy stupor.

I tore my attention from the painting, requiring a second to search my brain for the thread of our conversation before responding. “Byron, you can call me.”

“Can I?” He bent at the waist and plucked a black T-shirt from the top of a pile of black clothes.

Against my will, my eyes took a quick second to devour the sight of his bare torso, the deliciously precise angles and curves of his musculature, and the smooth skin of his abs in profile. Goodness. He really was perfect.

I gulped another rush of inappropriate saliva, rasping, “We’re friends.”

“Are we?” A dry laugh escaped him as he pulled on his shirt. “Last I heard, you don’t like me.”

I hesitated, then backtracked. “We’ve known each other for six years. That means you can call me.”

“Knowing someone for years doesn’t mean they’re okay with phone calls. Even I know that.” His vivid glare cut to mine as his head emerged from the neck of the shirt, his longish hair disheveled. Byron shoved the black strands away from his eyes and forehead, the muscle at his jaw ticking like he dared me to contradict him.

“True. . .” I said, adding nothing else. The inane word echoed between us while Byron stared at me—not quite a glare but with no hint of warmth or friendliness either—and I stared at him, hovering without purpose at the entrance to his bedroom.

I should’ve left. But my feet didn’t—wouldn’t—move. I felt lost. I’d come here tonight with high hopes, looking forward to shutting the book on my crush and ideas about Jeff and me, and anticipating a future of friendship with both Lucy and Jeff. Instead, Lucy seemed to hate my guts, Jeff was being weird, and Byron was . . .

Well. Byron was being Byron.

“I think—”

“Have you decided to back out of the deal? Or when are we going to do another video?” he demanded.

If he’d sounded bored or disinterested, I wouldn’t have hesitated calling it off then and there. But he didn’t. He sounded uncharacteristically invested and interested, and dare I say upset?

I stalled. “I thought you didn’t want to know when we’re doing the videos.”

“You said once a week. It’s been almost three.” He lifted his chin as he spoke, his eyes releasing mine to skim down the front of my dress.

“I don’t know. I—”

“Say it, you changed your mind.”

“No,” I said, forcing myself to stop twisting my fingers as his gaze—having reached my shoes—traveled upward again.

Byron tilted his head to the side, his attention somewhere between my waist and my neck. “No?”

“Fine. Maybe.”

His eyes cut back to mine, narrowed. “Why?”

I shrugged, my bravery failing me. Or perhaps good manners finally kicked in.

This was the longest conversation we’d ever had, just the two of us, and the first time I’d answered his pointed—borderline rude—questions honestly rather than endeavoring to steer the conversation into more courteous waters. For some reason, in the present moment, I didn’t feel nearly as irritated with him as usual. But that might’ve been because I’d already expended my quota of Byron-related frustration earlier in the bathroom. I’d also felt irritated with almost everything and everyone all night. I was tired.

However, my simmering, directionless discontent didn’t mean I was ready to mimic his rudeness.

“Why?” he asked again, the line of his mouth insolent. “If you’re going to renege on our deal, the least you can do is tell me why—and the truth.”

A disbelieving smile quirked my lips. “You think I’m going to lie to you?”

“Yes.”

I reared back. “You think I’m a liar?”

“Yes.”

I huffed a laugh to cover the abrupt spike of anger. “Oh yeah? When have I ever lied?”

“Every time you allow someone to treat you like shit and, instead of calling them on it, you change the subject, or tell a joke, or try to make them feel better for being a pathetic, sheep-biting footlicker.”

My mouth fell open and I gaped, not knowing which part of his statement to process first.

Sheep-biting footlicker. What the—? Who says that kind of thing? What did it even mean? And what did it say about me that I found it charming and wanted to laugh?

But also, Every time you allow someone to treat you like—

“Excuse you!” I planted my fists on my hips. “I do not allow people to treat me like shit. Being a kind person makes me a liar? Well then, I guess you’re the most honest person I know.”

The slight curve at the corner of his mouth returned. “That’s the most truthful thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Oh? Really?”

He shrugged. “Other than when you said you didn’t like me.”

“I see.” Giving him my most sarcastic, caustic series of head nods, I took another step into the room, then another. “Then how about this? You’re a grumpy, snobby, pretentious a-hole. Is that enough honesty for you?”

He pressed his lips together as though he were fighting a laugh. “A-hole? I assume that stands for asshole?”

“Then you’d assume wrong, Doctor Apathy Hole.” I pivoted my head back and forth on my neck to punctuate my insult.

Byron’s slashing eyebrows ticked up and he strolled closer. “Doctor? Not Mister?”

“You have two PhDs. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Ah. Yes. Heaven forbid.” His deep voice was barely above a whisper, and he mostly lost his battle with the smile he’d been trying to suppress. It tugged forcefully at his full lips, yet he refused to cede even the smallest flash of teeth. That said, those unusual eyes of his were definitely sparkling with amusement.

And while we’re on the subject, how dare he!

How dare he unleash an eye sparkle at this moment after I’d been taunted into lowering myself to his level. How dare he walk around his own house in nothing but snug-fitting pajamas that highlighted the magnificence of his body. How dare he saunter onto the landing with no shirt on and reprimand me for apologizing too much. I did apologize too much, true. But who the heck was he to reprimand me for it?

Also, how DARE he wear black underwear. And those thighs . . .

I glowered at him, unsmiling, confused, my neck hot. On the one hand, I was frustrated for being oddly charmed by our exchange. On the other, I was upset that I’d been baited into name-calling and acting like the childish moron he clearly thought I was. Meanwhile, he continued staring at me, his lips relaxing into a pleased-looking curve while a moment filled with spiky tension passed between us.

Eventually, Byron took another step toward me, his gaze more relaxed than usual. “Feel better?” he asked, that pleased curve lingering on his full lips. “Now that you’ve called me Dr. Apathy Hole.”

“I don’t like being mean and calling people names, even if they’re true,” I answered, allowing the glower to fall from my features. “So, no. I don’t feel better.”

His smile waned. “You can be honest without calling people names.”

“But you can’t seem to be honest without being mean,” I said, and immediately wondered if I should regret the words.

Again, he lifted his chin, absorbing my statement, his gaze turning contemplative. “I see.”

“What do you see?”

“That’s why you want to renege on the deal.”

Exhausted, I rubbed my forehead. I needed to get back to Amelia. This was the strangest conversation I’d ever had, especially considering I’d known this particular person for six years. “That’s not the reason.”

“Really?” The single word positively dripped with scorn. “If being honest and setting boundaries makes me mean, I’m fine with you thinking I’m mean, Fred. But not taking advantage of an opportunity that will make a huge difference in your quality of life, help you pay off those loans, simply because you don’t like me, or I’m mean is—”

“I said you being mean isn’t the reason. I’m telling the truth.”

“Then what other reason could there be? I’m handing you an opportunity here, asking very little in exchange.” Now his tone took on a frustrated, pleading edge. “Fine. You don’t want to come to New York or the Jupiter Awards? Don’t. That’s fine. You’re off the hook.”

“Byron—”

“Let me help.” He lifted his hands like he might grab mine but then seemed to stop himself at the last minute, instead shoving stiff fingers into his hair, dropping his eyes to the carpet. Breathing out, he leveled me with a direct stare that felt beseeching and hit me like a hot, lead weight between my ribs. “Let me do this one thing. You don’t have to like me in order to let me help you.”

“It feels disingenuous, okay?” I blurted, compelled by the unexpected softness behind his eyes. “It feels wrong to get followers this way.”

Byron paused, his gaze turning introspective. “How so?”

“We’d be lying, and I’d be kitesurfing on your fame.” I gestured to him. “They’re not tuning in for me, they’re tuning in for you, and I want to earn my audience. I’d want them to be there for me, for my STEM videos, not your fame. And if I couldn’t have that, then at the very least—the very least—I don’t want to lie to get followers.”

“I disagree.”

I tried for a breezy laugh. “Oh yeah? With what?”

“All of it.”

“You think they’d be tuning in for me?”

“No. They wouldn’t be tuning in for me, or for you. They’d be tuning in for us, this story you and Amelia pulled together, the tension of unrequited feelings, one type of relationship growing into something different. But even if you were kitesurfing on my fame, I don’t mind. I don’t care. Neither should you.”

“But I do care.” I exhaled a mighty breath. “At least with Jeff, I had a crush on him.”

Byron’s lip suddenly curled, his sneer making its first appearance, his eyes losing their softness and shuttering closed like a slammed window. “You still have a thing for him?”

“No. No, no, no.” I paired the denial with a laugh and a dismissive hand wave. “Tonight cured me of that. But—what I’m saying is—the story we wrote at the time was at least partially true. But with you?” I shrugged. “I thought I could do this, but it doesn’t feel right.”

Tracking me as I backed toward the door, he looked pained. And determined. And frustrated.

So I added, “Listen, I will go with you to New York and the awards ceremony, no matter what I decide about the challenges. I said I would, so I will. I will be your buffer. I’m not going to leave you hanging, I promise.”

“Wait.” Strolling forward, he thrust his fingers into his hair again, his attention moving up and to the right, fastening on the wall behind me. “Wait, don’t—what if—” His jaw set, he let his hand drop to his side. “What if it weren’t disingenuous?”

My face didn’t know whether to smile or frown. “What? Tell a different story? Two long-term acquaintances who can’t stand each other, suffering through romantic trends and challenges together?”

“No,” he drawled, like he didn’t find any part of what I’d said funny.

I almost rolled my eyes—almost—but managed to refrain, if only because I’d already behaved like a child earlier when I called him Dr. Apathy Hole. But I was convinced his inability or unwillingness to find humor in the ridiculous was why we’d never be friends. We’d never get along. We’d never like each other. And that was that.

These were the thoughts running through my mind as Byron’s jaw worked for a protracted moment before he lowered his glare from the wall, ensnared mine, and said, “I like you.”