Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend
: Chapter 26

Heart full to bursting, but also heavy with trepidation, I had no plans to actually sleep. Nor did I believe sleep was possible given the varied and vast nature of Byron’s drunken statements and declarations.

He loves me?!

He’s loved me for years?!

. . . BUT WHY?

My instinct was to feel only happiness, and yet the sudden, drunken revelation of Byron’s feelings while I’d helped him to his room had caught me completely off guard. I couldn’t sort through the tangle between my head and heart, and the more I tried to dissect it, the more it twisted and spun and knotted.

I trusted him, I believed he’d meant the words he’d said while drunk, at the time. Would he say or mean them when sober?

It wasn’t just the alcohol-soaked nature of his declarations that worried me. What if he really did love me? I’d never been loved by anyone before, definitely not the kind of love Byron claimed to have for me. I felt honored and humbled and overwhelmed, and also suspicious that there might be some mistake and he’d confused me with someone else. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

My involuntary attraction and the intensity of my feelings had always been—up to this point—something to hide, contain, and suppress because I considered Byron to be one of the most impressive, intelligent, and talented people in the entire world.

How could I not find the idea of this man’s love and eternal devotion completely intimidating? Especially since I’d spent the last month actively working to protect my heart from foolishly falling for him.

As I attempted to recall and catalog every moment we’d spent together and what signs I’d blatantly missed—I must’ve exhausted myself vacillating between giddy happiness and intimidated apprehension. I zonked out next to him in his big comfortable bed. The next thing I knew, the sound of someone singing roused me from a dream featuring Byron and me and his hot tub.

At first I thought I was at home in my room and Elijah was the source of the perfectly pitched rendition of “Cry Me A River.” But then, after rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the enormity of the dark bedroom came into focus. I spotted Byron next to me, his arms sprawled out, one hand laying lightly on my stomach.

Memories from the previous evening rushed to the forefront and I blushed, smiling, wishing I could wake him up with kisses, wishing we could skip over the talking part and go straight to the undressing part. But if I wanted a lasting future with Byron as more than just friends—and I did—we needed to talk first, canoodle later.

Gently, I encircled his wrist and lifted his heavy arm up and away. Then I rolled off the bed, the sound of the song from beyond the door drawing closer, louder. It was just the refrain, over and over, like the singer didn’t know any of the other words.

Is that . . . Jeff?

Picking up my phone from the otherwise empty nightstand on my side, I checked the time—8:42 a.m. Whoa. I’d had no idea it was so late. The blackout shades in Byron’s room certainly were effective.

Rounding the bed, I cast a quick look at Byron, checking to ensure he was still fast asleep and Jeff’s crooning hadn’t woken him, then darted to the door. Once there, I cracked it open and peered out at the huge landing, squinting against the light overhead.

Sure enough, there sat Jeff on a Victorian-looking, blue velvet settee, a bottle of beer in one hand, his phone in the other, singing Justin Timberlake’s infamous breakup song. By the looks of it, he was nearly as drunk as Byron had been last night.

Jeff spotted me as I slipped out of Byron’s door and did a slow-motion double take, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands despite how full they were holding the bottle and his cell. Jeff ended up spilling a quantity of beer on the carpet in the process.

“What the fu—”

“Shh! Byron’s sleeping.” I ran forward and righted his hand to stop the waterfall. I then darted to the bathroom for a towel. Finding one on the rack, I ran back over to Jeff, dropped to my knees to sop up the wet spot on the ancient carpet, frustrated by his carelessness. This wasn’t his house. It was Byron’s house, and he was spilling beer on the carpet? “Should you be drinking up here?”

“Winnie?”

I glanced up at him and his incredulous tone. He now stared at me, apparently dumbfounded, his eyes bugging out of his head. I decided to swipe the bottle from his hand as it was lilting once again.

“Did Dionysus throw a party on Mercury last night, sending it into retrograde?” I grumbled, speaking to myself. “Is everyone drunk but me?”

“Winnie, what are you—did you just—are you—”

“Shh!” I shushed him again. Maybe it was because I’d just woken up, though I didn’t think so, but Jeff’s voice was very loud. Holding his beer hostage, I stood and stepped away, motioning him toward the back stairs. “Come on. We’ll talk in the kitchen.” I didn’t want him to wake Byron. The big guy needed his sleep.

Or rather, I needed Byron to get his sleep so his liver would efficiently process that alcohol and he’d sober up and we could talk and get everything settled. Once and for all. Then, canoodling.

Not checking to see if Jeff would follow, I turned and tiptoed down the servant’s small stairway which deposited me just off the kitchen. A few seconds later, I heard the door swing open with a soft squeak while I set his beer on the counter and scanned the tidy space for a laundry basket.

“What are you doing here, Winnie?” Jeff’s demanding, unmodulated voice at my back made me glad we’d left the second floor.

“Where is the laundry basket?” I twisted around to question Jeff. “Do you keep one on this floor?”

“Put it down the laundry chute, it’s in the butler’s pantry,” he slurred, shuffling around the diameter of the kitchen island. Making it to the other side, he noisily pulled out a stool and sank into it. “What the heck are you doing here?”

I frowned at his laundry chute suggestion. I didn’t want to put a beer-soaked towel down the laundry chute. It would beer-soak everything beneath it.

“Hmm. . .” I eyed the sink. “I’ll rinse it out first.”

I felt Jeff’s inebriated attention on me as I walked over to the kitchen sink and flipped on the faucet.

“Is there something going on with you two? Are you and Byron together?” The words seemed to burst out of him, making my hands pause beneath the running water.

Sneaking a look at Jeff, I found him watching me with a sullen expression. He looked like he’d had a hard night. And he was drinking beer before 9:00 a.m. Hmm . . .

Twisting the towel now that it was appropriately soaked, I shrugged and kept my tone light. “Something like that. Is Lucy here?”

He made a sound I couldn’t interpret. “Uh, no. She’s not here. In fact, we broke up. And this time I wouldn’t take her back if she begged me.” His voice had dropped an octave.

I felt my eyebrows jump of their own volition, but I said nothing. This explained his getting sloshed and the day drinking, but they’d broken up many times before. History told me the separation was merely temporary. Therefore, rather than say anything, I gave him a tight smile.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

Shrugging again, my mind cast about for a subject change. I had no desire to discuss Jeff, or Lucy, or Jeff and Lucy. After weeks of distance from the dinner party as well as the subsequent and immediate snuffing out of my Jeff crush, witnessing their dynamic in retrospect made me feel like maybe I’d dodged a bullet.

“Winnie,” he said, his hand moving over the counter, closer to the sink.

I glanced at him.

His bloodshot eyes searched mine. “I’m so sorry I left you hanging.”

“What? Nah. It’s fine.” I waved away his apology and turned off the sink, wringing out the towel one more time before draping it over the edge to dry. “It actually worked out better.”

“Getting a lot of followers, huh?”

“Yeah, and a lot of them are girls and women who read Byron’s books, which is basically my target demographic. Funny how that works.” I offered a smile around a yawn, distracted by thoughts of the beer still on the carpet upstairs. I wondered if I should roll the carpet back and check to see if any had soaked through to the wood floor beneath.

“But it’s all fake?”

I shook myself, blinking at Jeff. “Pardon?”

“It’s all fake?” he repeated.

“What do you mean?” I forgot what we were discussing.

“It’s staged, the videos you two are doing. You’re following a script, you’re staging them like you wanted to do with me?”

Oh. “It’s—no, we’re not. But we’re on the same page about it.” I backed up until my bottom met the opposite counter. I leaned against it. “Why do you ask?”

“I was hoping that maybe you’d . . .” He bent his arm at the elbow and straightened from his hunched position over the counter. “Listen, I know I fucked up. I left when Lucy called, and I can’t believe I was so stupid. We are not getting back together. Not this time, and never—”

“Jeff, you didn’t eff up.” Don’t cringe, don’t cringe, don’t cringe.

“I didn’t?”

“No. You love her. You two have been together for over a decade. If she calls, you’re always going to answer.”

His shoulders slumped. “It’s such a relief to hear you say that.”

“Please don’t give it another thought. We’re still friends.”

“Well, about that.” A slow smile pushed to the surface of his features. “How about that date?”

I flinched, certain I’d heard him wrong. “Excuse me?”

When he continued to stare at me, his gaze drifting lower over the front of my body, I did cringe. I also folded my arms over my chest. What the heck? Hadn’t he just seen me coming out of Byron’s room? Didn’t he just ask if we were together?

“I asked you out before and you said yes,” he said—like an agreement weeks ago lasted for the remainder of my life—and I recognized this voice. It sounded like the voice he’d used with Lucy the night of the dinner party, placating and pleading.

Yuck.

“No, Jeff. You just broke up with Lucy. You shouldn’t be going on a date with me or with anyone else. Give yourself some time.”

“I don’t want time.” Jeff sliced a hand through the air, his head moving in a sloppy but determined shake, his features twisting. “The last thing I want is time. Do you know what I gave up? How much I sacrificed by being loyal to Lucy for so long?”

“You should get some—”

“I could’ve had any girl in college. Anyone! Do you know how hard it was for me? Do you understand what it’s like for someone like me to be faithful to just one girl?” He lifted a hand toward me. “I could’ve had you. But no. I was stupid. So fucking stupid. And blind.” He shoved the base of his palms into his eyes.

Looks like everyone is revealing their true colors tonight. And Jeff’s were skeevy celadon with a dash of conceited chartreuse.

Certain my face betrayed my thoughts, but unconcerned since he didn’t seem to notice anything beyond his own gross pity party, I backed toward the stairway, deciding it was best to make a quiet exit. Maybe he wouldn’t notice and—

“He’s never had a girlfriend, you know.” He hadn’t looked up, his palms still covering his eyes.

I froze. “Who?”

“Byron.”

I’d suspected as much, but having it confirmed made my stomach flip. “Oh? Well, I guess he never met the right person.” Before now.

“He said, and this is a direct quote, ‘Monogamy is for quitters.’”

That sounded like Byron’s brand of dry humor, and I refused to read anything into it. That said, we would most definitely clarify the statement when he woke up and we talked through everything. I wasn’t a person capable of accepting anything other than monogamy in a relationship.

“Maybe he was joking,” I said.

“I don’t think so. I think Byron doesn’t commit to women because it inconveniences Byron to have people expect anything of him.” Jeff chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. “Maybe he’s right. Hell, maybe Lucy is right. Maybe she and I were too young.” His hands fell away, smacking on the countertop as they landed. His stare dazed, he said desolately, “She cheated on me.”

My weight shifted to my back foot, absorbing this information. I’d been cheated on once upon a time. It was why my high school boyfriend and I had broken up my sophomore year of college. I remembered the devastation being cheated on causes to one’s self-esteem. “I’m so sorry, Jeff.”

“She’s been screwing this guy at her work. And before that, she’d been with a few guys in law school.” His volume had lowered to a mumble, and he looked so forlorn. Broken. “She’s been lying to me for years”—his voice cracked—“And like a total idiot, I fell for it.”

Sighing, I sent him a compassionate look, my heart going out to him. Though I knew what it was like to be cheated on, my ex had told me the morning after it happened—via a phone call—and said he was sorry. He’d said he really liked me, but he didn’t see things working out in the long term, that we were too young to be in a long-distance relationship and he was tired of waiting for me to be ready to have sex.

He’d cheated, but he hadn’t lied about it. He hadn’t led me on for years. I couldn’t imagine what Jeff was feeling right now. I assumed anger must’ve been paramount.

No wonder he’d been singing “Cry Me A River” at the top of his lungs and had said all that stuff about staying loyal to her, wishing he’d slept around in college. I wasn’t excusing his gross statements, but when people are hurt, they say and do things that aren’t reflective of who they really are. Poor guy.

“She stole the best years of my life. I’ve wasted so much time.” Jeff’s elbows came to the counter, his forehead falling to his hands. “I’m so fucking stupid.” He started to cry.

I tsked, muttering, “Oh no.” Hesitating only a moment, I quickly walked around the kitchen island and came to stand at his side. Patting his back, I shushed him soothingly, murmuring nonsense I hoped would ease the sting. Or at the very least, I hoped a presence, someone simply being there for him so he didn’t have to be alone, might help.

Jeff cried into his hands for several minutes while I waited, wondering what I could do or say to make it better. He was still my friend, and I wanted to be a good friend. Mentally, I thumbed through my joke database and came up empty, finding nothing relating to this subject that might make him laugh or cheer his spirits.

Then suddenly, he stood up, turned around, and pulled me into his arms.

I stiffened, surprised by the unexpected hug, and internally engaged in a quick, heated debate with myself.

On the one hand, this was Jeff, my friend, and he needed comfort, and it was just a hug. I hugged and cuddled with my friends all the time. On the other hand, he’d just asked me out, had made gross statements about “having me,” and despite his turmoil and fragile state, I didn’t particularly want him hugging me right now. It made me feel uncomfortable.

And in addition to all of the above, Byron and I were on the precipice—hopefully—of officially becoming more than friends. If the roles were reversed and Byron was consoling a female friend after she’d just asked him out and talked about easily having him, I’d side-eye an embrace, no matter how much she hurt and no matter how much I trusted Byron. Perhaps this was because I’d been cheated on in the past and I should’ve had more chill, but I wouldn’t like it.

“Promise me you’ll give me another chance.” Jeff pressed his wet face into my neck, sniffling.

“Uh . . .”

My hands were still up, my arms held away from my sides. For the second time in my life, I decided my boundaries and comfort mattered more than potentially offending someone else. I both blamed and credited Byron and his influence. Regardless, I wanted to extract myself, and so I would.

“Jeff, hey, let me go.”

He held me tighter. “Winnie, I made a mistake. Let me, let me take you out. Just once. I’ll show you. I know you still like me.”

I grimaced, placing the flat of my palms against his shoulders and pushed. “I’d like you a whole lot better if you’d let me go. Jeff—let me—”

He kissed my neck, and I froze. A frigid wave of revulsion made my stomach drop. Then he kissed my neck again and again, his hands sliding over my back, grasping me.

I pushed in earnest, wrenching my neck and head away. “I said, let me go. Stop. Jeff—stop!”

Jeff lifted his head, then tried to fasten his mouth to mine, and I took the opportunity to slap him. Hard. He stumbled back, eyes wide, gripping his cheek.

Placing my hands on my hips, I drew myself up to my full height. “Now you listen. I know you’re hurting, I know you’re devastated. But I am your friend, not a convenient someone to be used, and you don’t treat friends that way. Be better than that. Shame on you.”

His face crumpled, and he nodded. “Oh God, Winnie. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought you were into it.”

“What? Why would you think that?” Just to be safe, I rounded the kitchen island again, putting some space between us and pressing a hand to my thumping heart.

Now that we were separated, I identified the surge of adrenaline for what it was. I’d never had anyone touch me like that, hold me against my will. Nor had I ever slapped or hit another person. I told my body to settle down, told myself it was over and I was okay.

His hand came to his forehead, hiding his eyes. “The way you were touching me, and you’ve always liked me and—sorry, I guess your signals confused me.”

I mouthed the words signals, outraged because. . . what?

I wasn’t giving him any signals. Was I?

“Never mind. Forget it.” His hand fell to his side and his eyes lifted to the ceiling. “I guess you aren’t interested in me anymore, now that you could have someone like Byron.” The comment sounded offhanded, like he was talking to himself, but the words definitely weren’t flattering.

Someone like Byron. What the heck did he mean by that? I didn’t want someone like Byron, I wanted Byron. Besides, as far as I was concerned, there was no one like Byron. There was only Byron.

But since Jeff had said the words, I couldn’t help but compare the two men as I backed up toward the stairs. They’d both made some shocking statements this evening, and both had obviously been hurting when I’d happened upon them. But Byron—who’d also been drunk, arguably even more so than Jeff—had kept his hands to himself. Even while intoxicated, he’d expressed concern over my well-being and comfort, and he hadn’t touched me inappropriately. Not even once.

Whereas Jeff had made assumptions and tried to blame me and my nonexistent signals for his gross behavior. I guess I didn’t dodge a bullet with Jeff, I’d dodged a nuclear warhead.

“Okay, well, you’re drunk, and you’re hurting. Maybe call someone so you don’t have to be alone.” I made it to the door and gripped the knob to disguise the slight tremor of my hand.

“You could stay with me,” he said beseechingly, his eyes soft and sad. “I think I need you, Winnie. I think I need—”

“No, you do not need me.” I cut him off before he could finish his thought, every cell of my body needing to leave this room. “I’m going to check on that beer spot on the carpet. I don’t want it soaking through to the wood.”

“Oh. I see. A wood floor is more important than a friend going through a hard time. Got it.” His expression grew hard. Reclaiming his stool, he grabbed the beer I’d set on the counter and picked at the label. “I always thought you were such a nice girl, but I see now how it is, what you’re really after. You and Byron deserve each other.”

My chest tight with unease, disappointment, and the remainder of my adrenaline, I opened the door to the stairway and slipped inside, taking the stairs two at a time, wanting to be as far away from Jeff as possible.

I tried to remind myself that he was drunk and hurting. But this time, I simply couldn’t conjure anything like the same sympathy as before, not after he’d grabbed me like that and wouldn’t let me go. It would take a long time before I felt comfortable in his presence again—if ever.

There was a difference between making allowances for someone based on extenuating circumstances and allowing people to treat you like crap due to their extenuating circumstances. Until right this minute, I guess I’d done both. Worse, prior to now, I hadn’t seen or understood the difference.

But from now on, no matter the extenuating circumstances, no one—and I mean no one—will treat me like crap.

With these thoughts forefront in my mind and while keeping an ear out for Jeff, I pushed back the velvet blue settee and rolled away the carpet, breathing a sigh of relief when I found a padded protector between the wood floor and rug. Just to be safe, I grabbed another towel from the bathroom and slid it directly beneath the rug to soak up any additional moisture. That done, I crept back to Byron’s room. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep again, still feeling shaky from my run-in with Jeff downstairs, but I wanted to be there when Byron got up.

Slowly, I opened the door, not wanting to make any sound that might wake him prematurely. I needn’t have worried. Byron was awake, pacing the room, his handsome features marred with a severe scowl. My heart leapt and I shut the door behind me as I inspected the nightstand on his side, pleased to find he’d drained the glass and taken the pain relievers I’d left out.

All at once, I became aware that he’d stopped moving, and my attention returned to him. Our eyes met, and the weight and intensity of his stare struck me like a gong.

This was the moment. This was THE moment.

This is it.

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