He had boring ol' washboard abs that looked like they were sculpted by the Gods, and I had more curves than a backroad in a country song.

He could charm the panties off anyone he wanted, but I preferred to interact with my latest literary best friends.

He was my next-door neighbor, and the definition a bad idea.

I had no business thinking about him while I slid my hand up my own skirt to push the only buttons he had left untouched.

The only sliding I should have been doing was straight into the friend-zone.

Which I did, faster than he could say "Just friends."

It didn't matter that he spent more time in my apartment than his own or that he smiled at me in a way that made my stomach flip.

That was just Tucker.

And he was becoming my best friend.

Which made him completely off-limits.

But a weekend away and a bag packed so full I couldn't fit my logic were our downfall. 

We were going to screw everything up, and I would be the one left Bottoms Up.