Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend
: Chapter 15

Byron stared at me, wide-eyed and unmoving. “Excuse me?”

“It makes sense. It makes a lot of sense. At some point, spending time with someone you’re inconveniently attracted to has to get easier. Theoretically, with repeated exposure, the involuntary feelings will eventually disappear.”

His gaze turned watchful. “That is a theory. Why? Are you thinking of applying it to Jeff? Spending more time with him?”

“What? No.” I scrunched my face. “I don’t like Jeff. But hear me out.” I walked around the table, allowing my stream of consciousness to carry me forward. “If, currently, person A’s presence—their smiles, laughter, face, hands, smell, whatever—causes a dump of dopamine in person B’s brain, and person A’s pheromones radically impact the olfactory systems of person B, I have to believe increased exposure will dull those effects, don’t you think?”

Byron blinked, like my words were spoken in a language foreign to him. Or he thought I’d lost my mind somewhere in the butler’s pantry, between the kitchen and the dining room.

I soldiered on, deciding to use an analogy. “Like any substance working on neuroreceptors. Prescription drugs as an example. Wouldn’t we require more frequent consumption and stronger doses in order to experience the same chemical response each time? Therefore, theoretically, just hanging out should cure person A of their body’s biological response to person B.” Clasping my hands together, I felt more and more certain of my hastily compiled plan. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Slowly, he pushed his hands into his pockets, his gaze flickering over me, considering. “You think I want to cure myself of liking you?”

“If liking someone is involuntary, then wouldn’t a cure be a mercy? I think so.” I hedged, not wanting to reveal this theory was more about me than him. However, he raised a good point. Spending time together would help us both rid ourselves of this unwanted attraction.

Byron gave me a single, stunned blink, his mouth opening—probably to argue—so I cut him off. “We should do the video.” I walked past him, back through the butler’s pantry and kitchen, into the family room, piecing together the specific aims and methods of my experiment as I went. “If this is going to work, moving forward we should try to control the rate and time of exposure, the activities we engage in, how often we touch, etcetera. Then, over time, the effects of exposure will diminish until they fade completely.”

Yes. YES! This will work. Take that, ingrained biological responses!

Pulling my phone from my coat pocket, I contemplated the arrangement of his family room. Byron had already turned on the television and paused whatever movie he’d selected.

“I do not think your theory is valid.”

I glanced over my shoulder. He stood just inside the doorway, his hands still in his pockets, his features free of the loftiness I used to think was hard coded in his DNA. Or maybe, now that we’d spent some time together, it didn’t look like loftiness anymore. It just looked like Byron.

Handsome as Hades and twice as brooding, for the first time in our acquaintance, I gave myself permission to simply admire how absolutely magnificent he was—from the thickness of his thighs to the sleek, raven black of his hair, the slight curling of his upper lip to the stunning beauty of his eyes. My stomach gave a weak flutter, my heart squeezing in response, and—you know what?—that was perfectly fine.

I had a plan to wean the Byron-biological warfare from my system, a solid working theory. Soon, no amount of brooding Byron sexiness would affect me at all.

Science for the Win! That’s me. I’m the Win.

“Why don’t you think my theory is valid?” I turned back to the family room, my chest all achy with the aftereffects of my blatant admiring. I decided to place my phone just under the TV. Ensuring the screen faced the couch so I could confirm we both stayed in the shot for the duration of the recording, I woke the phone, navigated to the video, and set it to selfie mode.

“Explain relationships that last fifty years. If repeated or prolonged exposure between two people dulled the effects of love, why would anyone stay together for a half century?”

“I’m not claiming that love isn’t lasting. My theory has nothing to do with enduring love, or love at all.” Arranging the phone until I was happy with the angle, I walked backward to the couch and sat, inspecting the shot. It looked fine. “I’m talking about liking someone. A crush. Ask any couple who’s been together for a while. They all claim the initial rush of involuntary feelings fades within the first few months or—worst-case scenario—years, data that supports my theory. Now, come over here. I think we’re ready to go.”

I stood and walked the short distance to the phone, hitting the Record button as Byron strolled into the frame behind me and claimed a seat, a frown darkening his features. Walking backward again, I sat next to Byron when my legs met the sofa, deciding at the last minute I needed to sit right next to him in order for us to be framed correctly.

Checking the shot alignment, I folded my legs beneath me and angled my body toward his. Last thing, I looped my arm around his arm and curled my hand over his bicep. And then I breathed out slowly, needing a second. Byron had an extremely well-formed arm and touching it, being this close to him, did a few twisty things to my internal organs.

But all would be well. Eventually. Repeated, controlled exposure. That’s the answer.

“There. That’s good.” My fingers gave his upper arm a little squeeze and stroke, necessitating that I press my knees together. It was a miracle when my voice sounded almost normal as I said, “You can hit play whenever.”

“Should I—” He cleared his throat. “Would it be better if I put my arm around you?”

“Whatever feels most natural. What movie are we using?”

Byron didn’t put his arm around me. He picked up the remote and pressed play. The Focus Features logo came up on the screen just before music I knew by heart sounded from the speakers.

“Shaun of the Dead!” I may have squealed a little, turning to face Byron. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“I know.” He didn’t look at me, and his profile appeared impassive, but his voice held a smile.

I quickly calculated how much sleep I’d get if I stayed for the whole movie, my stomach sinking slightly at the realization that it wouldn’t be enough. But tomorrow is Friday and you can sleep in on Saturday, so . . .

“Is it okay if I stay?” I whispered, my eyes now peeled to the opening scenes.

“Of course.”

“I mean, after we’re done with the challenge, for the whole movie.”

“I figured.” Byron shifted, tugging on his arm.

With reluctance, I let it go, already mourning the loss of his closeness and his muscles beneath my hands. But then his arm came around me, and his hand came to my arm, and he guided my head to his shoulder. His other hand reached for mine, bringing my palm to his chest where he cupped it, and my whole body seemed to tense and sigh and rejoice and freeze.

This feels . . . sooo gooooood.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

No. It wasn’t okay. It was great.

“Yes.” I snuggled closer, fitting the top of my head under his chin and inhaling because, why not? It was like a dream, and I was so dichotomously comfortable and uneasy. The conflicting sensations made me a little dizzy.

We watched the movie. We laughed at the same parts. And I knew what I needed to do next, but I couldn’t seem to bring myself to move. I knew I couldn’t keep recording, I didn’t have unlimited storage on my phone and the video was already seven minutes long.

You have to, Winnie. You have to move.

But then it would end. We’d have no reason to keep snuggling on the couch after the video was over.

DO IT! This isn’t real. Nothing about this is real, and the longer you indulge in the fantasy, the more difficult it will be to reenter reality.

With a mournful, silent sigh, I pushed slightly away from his chest. He let me go, his head swinging in my direction as I straightened. Wordlessly, I gave him a small smile and shifted my butt on the couch. Then, bracing a hand on his truly magnificent thigh—do not stroke it, DO NOT—I gently placed my head in his lap, my hands immediately jealous of my cheek.

“What—” he rasped, then cleared his throat. He didn’t finish his sentence.

I turned my head, gazing up at him. “This okay?”

He stared at me, seemed to be considering, doing a great job of pretending like his thoughts were in turmoil.

He cleared his throat again. “Let me get you a pillow.”

I turned my attention back to the movie. “You don’t want me to lay my head on your lap?”

He was already sliding his hands under my head and gently adding a throw pillow. “You’ll be more comfortable this way.”

I allowed him to add the pillow while protesting, “But I like your lap.” Because we were filming and I doubted I’d get another chance, I placed a hand on his thigh, just above the knee, and gave it a squeeze. That’s some good, high-quality thigh right there.

“And my lap likes you, which is why you should use a pillow.”

It took a few seconds for his words to sink in—probably because I remained distracted by his thigh—but when the statement did permeate my brain, my mouth dropped open and my eyes bugged out. I turned my head, staring up at him. Not helping matters, he peered down at me with one of his wry smiles that didn’t look at all apologetic.

I smacked his thigh and sat up. He laughed, trying to catch my hands, but he was too late. I picked up the pillow from his lap and delivered a soft whack to his face. Byron easily wrenched the pillow away and bound my wrists with his long fingers, yanking me forward, bringing our faces within inches of each other.

For some reason, we were both breathing hard. I wore a smile, he did not.

“Pillow or no lap,” he said.

I lifted an eyebrow, tilting my head. “I have an idea.”

His eyes narrowed, heavy with suspicion, but he let my wrists go when I twisted them. Untucking my legs from beneath me, I placed my feet on the floor, and I faced the TV again. I felt his gaze track my movements, and when I patted my own lap, I glanced at him.

“Come on, lay it on me.”

He reared back a half inch, visibly surprised.

I was also surprised at my boldness and playfulness. But at the same time, this plan I’d concocted of repeated exposure to Byron had given me bravery in his company where before I’d felt only the instinct to avoid and escape.

I needed to confront these feelings so that they’d dim, diminish, and disappear. If I kept avoiding them and him, they’d never lessen or go away. That was the theory, I felt certainty in my hypothesis, and I was committed to seeing this experiment through.

“Come on, give me your head.” I patted my lap again, adding in a whisper, “It’ll be a great way to end the video, a good twist.”

Understanding and something else solidified in his eyes. He lifted his chin.

Then, Byron Visser, shunner of humans, scooched his butt back, braced his hand on my thigh, and placed his head in my lap. I smiled, impulsively deciding to thread my fingers through his lovely hair. He stiffened, but then a moment later he sighed, and I felt the tension leave his neck as I played with the longish locks.

“I love your hair,” I said unthinkingly. But I did love his hair, so whatever.

He placed a hand on my knee, similar to what I’d done to his leg earlier. “You can have it.”

I chuckled, feeling . . . oddly happy. Content. How strange.

We sat like that for at least a full minute, during which I’m sure I grinned the whole time, feeling myself relax into the couch and the moment, enjoying the feel of his head resting on my lap and the silken strands of his hair being combed between my fingers.

Instead of watching my favorite movie, I found my mind drifting to our evening together and how much I’d enjoyed listening to him talk, how grateful I felt for his help, how conflicted I’d felt after almost kissing him, and wondering if it would have been the worst thing in the world if I had kissed him.

He’d been so thoughtful, making me dinner. It had been so kind. Had I even said thank you? Or had I been too in-my-own-head to return his kindness with basic politeness?

Jeez. Maybe I just needed to chill out with him. I was a pro at chilling out with everyone else, why couldn’t I relax and live in the moment with Byron? Why did I allow past misconceptions to continue—

Byron abruptly sat upright, pushed from the couch, walked over to my phone, and picked it up. I stared at him dumbly, and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask what was wrong.

But then he turned and tossed my cell to me, marching past. “Here. That should be enough. Stay as long as you want. I left your food on the counter. See you next week.” His features as dispassionate as his tone, I watched his departure until he disappeared through the doorway to the salon, my face awash in mortified heat, my mouth parting in surprise.

Though I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Once again, I’d forgotten we were filming.

And once again, obviously, he had not.

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