Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  That startles her. She sits up, pretty eyes going wide.

  “Beau,” she says, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze, sending a zip of electricity up my arm. “My God, I’m sorry. I knew something was going on with you. Talk to me. Tell me everything.”

  “I think it’s been happening for a while—the depression—but I was kind of in denial about it, you know? All my life, I’ve been able to crush whatever I set my sights on. Whatever I asked of myself, I could do it. But after a while, I couldn’t.”

  “Oh, I know,” she replies, sipping her cocktail. “I’m pretty sure my depression started the second that stranger’s sperm hit my egg.”

  “I would’ve given you my sperm.”

  “Dude, not everyone is thirsting for your man seed, okay?”

  I hate it when she calls me dude, but I still laugh. “My ‘man seed’? You’ve been reading historicals, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Some romance, some Shakespeare, some good Sarah Dunant stuff about the Borgias. My point is, I think I’ve been depressed for the past year. But it took my daughter’s doctor pulling me aside for me to actually acknowledge it and do something about it.” She looks at me. Really looks. Eyes like the surface of the lake, liquid and clear and dark. “What are you doing about yours? The depression. How are you treating it? Please say you’re treating it.”

  “Jesus, have a little faith in me. Of course I’m treating it. I take my meds religiously. I go down to Asheville once a week to see a behavioral therapist. She’s been helping me with some coping strategies.” I don’t mention the neurologist I’m seeing or the physical therapist. The occupational therapist and the researcher, too, at Duke University. I’ll tell Annabel everything later when she’s better and back on her feet. “Keeping a regular schedule also helps. Exercising, too, seems to relieve a lot of my symptoms. Some days are harder than others. For a while, the world really felt like a joyless place,” I continue, sipping my cider. “And the irritability I felt with everyone and everything…”

  “Oh yeah. I thought that being depressed meant you, like, couldn’t get out of bed, you couldn’t function. I’ve been functioning—I mean, my baby is still alive, so that’s something—but I’ve just felt like I’m always on the verge.”

  I meet her eyes, and my heart ties itself in a knot. I know exactly what she’s talking about. Always feeling like you’re on the edge of an emotional cliff. Like a puff of wind or an annoying email or a stupid fight with your brother could send you hurtling over the edge.

  I’m trusting her with this. The same way she’s trusting me with her shit.

  Heaven help me, but I’m really, really struggling not to cross any lines. I’ve never been one to want what I can’t have, so that’s not what this is—me wanting Annabel just when I can’t touch her. I’ve always wanted her. I guess…I don’t know. Maybe facing a future that’s suddenly become much darker has made me realize just how much I appreciate the light.

  I’m drawn to it—Annabel’s light. Her radical, almost magnetic honesty.

  Her sense of humor, which still shines through despite everything going on inside her head.

  Yep, I’m fucked.

  Chapter Six

  Beau

  Looking away, I close my eyes. I’m being stupid. This is just my depression talking. Or my dick.

  Either way, I’m not gonna listen. This is real life, not a fucking Coldplay song.

  “I’m sorry, Beau,” I hear her say. I feel her eyes on me, and when I open my own and drink her in, I can’t breathe for a few seconds. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, and I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

  Untangling my hand from hers, I hand her a cookie. “It’s not your fault. At least we’re in it together, right?”

  “Right,” she says, letting out a little moan of pleasure as she takes a bite. I dig my fingernails into my palm. “I’m proud of you for getting treated. And for trying. That’s one of the hardest things when you’re depressed. Just trying. I don’t want you to have to try alone. I want to be there for you. Every step of the way.”

  See? See how awesome and kind and genuine she is?

  “You get it.”

  Her eyes flash again. “Why do you sound so…conflicted, I guess, when you say that? Like me understanding is a bad thing?”

  Shaking my head, I deflect. “I just hate that you’re feeling this way, too.”

  “Hey. We’ve got each other’s backs. Same as we did when we were in Intro to Academic Writing together.”

  “Misery loves company. That class was so sneaky. The ‘intro’ part made me think it’d be easy. It was one of the hardest classes I ever took. It sucked.”

  “Well, yeah, going through that course was miserable. But if I remember correctly, we both ended up with an A. And a better understanding of how to write and what we had to say. Maybe…hell, maybe we need to feel what we’re feeling right now to come out stronger on the other side.”

  Hank’s started to play some songs. Sitting up there with just his guitar, he’s doing acoustic covers of everything from Lady Gaga to The Who. He’s actually pretty good.

  “So now that we’ve established that therapy is a gift from God and Prince Alberts are pleasurable for our partners—”

  “The world blew smoke up your ass for twenty years, Beau. Ever think the women you’ve been with might’ve been lying about how great your penis is?”

  “Nope.”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, even as she grins. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Yes. But enough about my dick. Can I get you another drink?”

  Her gaze trails up my body as I stand. My pulse ticks up a notch. I ignore that, too, and hold out my hand.

  But instead of passing me her mug, she holds out her hand.

  “I’m good on the drink. But…” She rises and stands in front of me, whiskey on her lips, hair behind her ears. “I’ll take a dance. What kind do y’all do up here? Line dancing? Cowboy dancing?”

  “I don’t rightly know what cowboy dancing is, but I’d be happy to let you ride me, ma’am.”

  “Pig.”

  “Pony. As in jump on it.”

  “Puns were never your strong suit.”

  “Saddle’s waitin’, sweetheart.” I gesture rudely at my hips. I’m teasing her this way because if I don’t, I’m worried I’ll pull her close and kiss the shit out of her.

  Annabel ignores me and changes the angle of her hand, sliding it into mine. She puts her other hand on my back, just beneath the ball of my shoulder.

  “Please just keep your junk in your trunk this time, okay?”

  “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

  Hank bursts into a lively version of the Rolling Stones’ “Beast of Burden” at the same moment. Bel laughs, belly and all, and for a second, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  “Did you plan this?” she asks.

  I’m laughing, too, as I pull her around to face me.

  “I wish.”

  “The universe has always been on your side.”

  If you only knew how wrong you are on that point.

  We dance and we laugh.

  I can’t have her. But I can make her smile.

  A lick of heat flashes in her eyes as she holds up her arm and watches me duck down to limbo underneath it. The sound of her laughter fills my head, my chest, and every corner of my being.

  No longer able to hold back, I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her in close. She bites her lip—aw, shit—and sways with me in time to the music. Her hand on my chest starts gliding up my shoulder, over its rounded slope, slowly, slowly, slowly, and I imagine she’s savoring me. Memorizing me, the way I’m currently memorizing the feel of the small of her back. I wanna know what she feels like underneath this jacket, slide my hand inside it, inside her sweater, feel the heat of her skin, how soft and sweet and strong she is.

  But instead, I grit my teeth, and somehow, by some miracle, hold myself a little away from her,
our bodies brushing but not really touching.

  That is, until Hank plays a country cover. The slow song draws the couples around us to come together and start to sway.

  Close.

  I look at Bel. She looks back and smiles, mostly with her eyes. She’s lit up in a way she wasn’t earlier today.

  She’s lit up with me, and only me, and Lord if my heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to barge right through the wall of my chest cavity, Kool-Aid Man style.

  Fuck me.

  I shouldn’t grab her hand and pull her to me. Closer than before.

  But I do.

  I shouldn’t curl my fingers around her palm and bring it to my chest as I slip an arm around her waist.

  But I do.

  I really shouldn’t gather her against my body and start to move us in time to the music. But I fucking do.

  Like an idiot, I hold her in my arms and slow dance to a ridiculously romantic—sexy—song. Heaviness gathers low in my belly, my thighs.

  I hold her hand in mine against my chest and bend my neck, resting my cheek against her head. There’s an ease to the way our bodies interact. An arousing familiarity, a rightness. The air between and around us vibrates with energy.

  After a while, I can’t tell who’s holding whom.

  Maybe we’re holding each other.

  Maybe being held is what we both need.

  I can tell by the way she curls into me, by the way she presses her hips against mine, that she’s feeling it, too.

  She needs to be held the same way I do. The biggest reason of all why I shouldn’t be dancing with her like this.

  I should let her go.

  Instead, I splay my fingers across the small of her back and press her more firmly into my body. For half a second, her groin melts fully into mine as I swivel my hips. The energy between us spikes, and my dick takes note.

  I still don’t pull away.

  With every passing heartbeat, I promise myself that I’ll step back and do the right thing.

  Bel rests her head against my shoulder, angling her chin so her nose brushes the bare skin of my neck above my jacket collar.

  She inhales. The warmth in my blood spikes to heat.

  “You sniffin’ me?” I ask. My voice is gruff.

  She scoffs, but then inhales again with a sigh, blowing her warm breath against my skin. “I am. You smell like happiness.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means I love the way I feel when I’m with you.” Annabel turns her head to glance up at me. Could be the darkness, but her eyes have this look in them. The look girls get when they’re into you. “I haven’t felt this good in so long, Beau.”

  My heart thumps. What the hell—

  How—

  Jesus, how is that not supposed to make me wanna lean down and kiss her?

  She’s so damn close. I’d just have to bend my neck and tilt my head to kiss that pretty little mouth good and hard.

  Bel’s a smart woman. Passionate. Always has been. She’d be a fucking great kisser. I’m pretty damn great at it, too. Bel would call me out for being cocky, but it’s the truth. I love good, hard kissing. Just like I love hard, good fucking.

  The two of us, Bel and I, being together like that—

  I swallow and close my eyes. “I’m glad you feel better.”

  “Do you? Feel better now?”

  “I always feel better when I’m with you.”

  The skin at the edges of her eyes crinkles. Fuck. I didn’t mean to say that. Then those eyes…they flick to my mouth, and she goes still against me.

  My pulse goes apeshit. For a split second, I’m convinced she’s gonna kiss me, go up on her tippy toes and plant one right where I want her to.

  Do it, my body begs. Just one. Just a kiss.

  I wait, and I want, but I know. I know I wouldn’t be able to just kiss Bel because I’d want more.

  I’d want to finally do everything with her I’ve been fantasizing about doing for seventeen fucking years.

  I think about the question she asked me earlier. The one about why I don’t keep anyone around. I didn’t answer it then, but now, inside my head, I have that answer, and it scares me shitless.

  I’m alone because that’s what’s best for everyone. I’m alone so I won’t destroy lives.

  But more than anything else, Bel, I’m alone because no one compares to you.

  To: John Riley Beauregard (JRBeauregard@unc.edu)

  From: Annabel Rhodes (ARhodes@unc.edu)

  February 2, 2004 6:53 AM EST

  Subject: Um

  Yeah. We almost kissed last night.

  Or, really, I almost kissed you.

  I feel hugely guilty. I have a boyfriend, and you have…whoever you have these days. I’ve been up all night thinking about it, and finally, I decided to fire up my laptop and get my thoughts down before I drown in them.

  I think I have feelings for you, Beau. And last night, I was just having so much fun with you. Blowing off that party and hanging in our sweatpants. Holding our impromptu meeting of Word Porn. Dude, you get Jane Austen. And I have to admit, few things are sexier than a guy who can quote Darcy by heart.

  And then you listened while I bitched yet *again* about my dad’s new girlfriend. You’re the world’s best listener, you know that?

  I guess I just got carried away? I had a couple beers, and you had a couple beers, but I wasn’t drunk. Tipsy, maybe. But I think you’re so cute. Like, really cute.

  Let’s be real, you’re smoking hot.

  Still. I value our friendship so, so much. You’ve gotten me through some tough shit, and I’d like to think I’ve done the same for you. I would legit die if I made a move, or things between us changed, and I lost you somehow.

  You said it best in one of your emails—that you hoped we’d still be in each other’s lives ten, twenty years down the road. I hope that, too. I just don’t think it’s worth risking all that time and all those potential memories for a hookup.

  And I know you wouldn’t be just that for me—a one-time thing, a booty call. You’d mean so much more. I’d want so much more. And I’m not naïve. We’re young. In all likelihood, you’re headed off to the pros sooner rather than later. I wouldn’t want to hold you back or take your mind off your career. You have big ambitions, and that’s where you need to keep your focus. Not on some nerdy chick you met at a party in college. You’ll be traveling, working, living that fab millionaire life, and I’ll…still be here, I guess. Working on making my own dreams come true. I can so see that blowing up in our faces.

  If you didn’t having feelings too—if you turned me down—I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I could recover from that. If our friendship could recover, you know?

  Thank God I stopped myself last night at the last minute.

  Okay then. Guess I’ll be erasing this after I’m done blabbing. But I’m just so full right now of the things I feel for you. I promise I didn’t start to fall on purpose. I value you as so much more than what’s on the outside. I see how people use you, and I don’t want to be one of them.

  Ugh, it’s still hard not to hate myself. You seem to wear our friendship so well. So easily.

  But sometimes, being just friends is hard for me.

  Bel

  PS I really like it when you call me that.

  Chapter Seven

  Annabel

  I’m about to do something very stupid when the song abruptly ends.

  I wake from the spell, bewildered and embarrassed and so turned on.

  For the second time today, I’m in Beau’s arms, but this time feels different. Our embrace is tighter. Charged with electricity.

  Beau’s got me all hot and bothered.

  The inside jokes and stories from the front lines, figuring out depression and the deep end of life and dick piercings. He’s reminding me how life can be fun.

  Reminding me of who I am.

  Still, giving in to this strident…lust is not a good idea. I’ve kept it in my pan
ts for almost two decades now. What’s another few hours? A day? I need time to gather my thoughts. There’s too much at risk to just dive in.

  Or is there? Really, this could be the moment I’ve been waiting for all these years. Beau and I have had our fun. We’ve built the careers and the lives we’ve always dreamed of. We’re not traveling like crazy, at least for the time being. We’re settling down.

  Why not settle down with each other?

  I want to ask him that question so, so badly. But it’s been a long day, and whatever his answer is, it’ll be the same tonight as it is tomorrow.

  Leaving the warmth of his body is torture, but somehow, I manage to step back. “I should get back.”

  Beau clears his throat, flipping his hat off his head to run a hand through his hair—one of his nervous tells.

  What the hell is he nervous about? Not me. This. Us.

  Is he?

  The idea is too risky to contemplate.

  “Course. I’ll give you a ride. My cart’s parked right over here.”

  Following him, I sigh. “Sorry. I’m tired, and I have to pump soon or my boobs will explode. But does it make me an asshole to say I really don’t want to go home?”

  Maybe not an asshole, a voice inside my head says. But definitely an idiot.

  What am I trying to accomplish by saying that? Am I baiting him, waiting for him to ask me back to his place or something?

  “Nah,” he says. “Just makes you honest. C’mon, I’ll take the long way back to your cottage.”

  “It’s not a cottage.”

  “I know.”

  Beau makes good on his promise. The path we take dips down a hill and curves around the perimeter of the lake. Its surface is perfectly still. The full moon, the same milky white as Maisie’s skin, is reflected on the lake’s surface. A perfect mirror image. The air is cool, and my blood is warm. It burns warmer when I slide into Beau as we round a bend, our legs pressed together, knee to hip.

  I glance down at his thigh. It’s twice the size of mine, a ridge of solid muscle.