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 with lying to myself and pretending like I don’t dream of calling her mine. At least, I was until I see her with him.