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I've lied to myself for years about being in love with my best friend.
Everly Bowman and I don't make sense. She's sunshine personified, and I hate everyone. Well, everyone but her. It's easy to pretend like she isn't my whole world. Or it was until she needs a place to stay, and my apartment is her only option.
Suddenly, she's everywhere I turn. Even her scent is branded into my sheets. And thanks to our unofficial romance book club, I've also amassed an encyclopedia titled Everly's Pleasure Buttons . Each week, it gets harder to ignore how much I want to make her fantasies come true. Especially when we crawl into my bed every night.
But I won't jeopardize what we have for anything, so I'm fine lying to myself and pretending like I don't dream of calling her mine.
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