Maxie Langford had been ghosted, insulted, and semi-exorcised (see Chapter 4), but she'd never seduced herself.
Not properly.
Not with ambiance. Not with planning. Not with the kind of attention to detail she usually reserved for flatpack furniture or exfoliating foot masks.
And yet here she was: freshly shaved, freshly spritzed, and standing in front of her bathroom mirror wearing a silk kimono that hadn't seen daylight since the last time she tried to break up with gluten.
Step Six stared at her from the book, circled three times in red lipstick:
> "Seduce thyself before expecting others to desire thee. Be your own greatest aphrodisiac. Touch like you're worth worship."
"I'm either about to discover my inner goddess," she muttered, adjusting her boobs, "or accidentally summon a sex demon from the plumbing."
---
She set the scene.
Candles? Lit.
Music? Sultry French jazz. Slightly pretentious. Maxie didn't speak French, but she felt vaguely scandalous listening to it.
Mood lighting? Her living room now glowed like the inside of a cherry-flavored lube bottle.
She laid out a silk sheet, poured herself a glass of wine, and placed her phone on Do Not Disturb. No distractions.
She was going to romance herself like a horny Victorian poet.
---
Then she started slow.
She massaged lotion onto her legs—with purpose. Not the slapdash winter-routine kind of lotioning, but the full, reverent, "I am a goddess of thighs" kind.
She ran her fingers across her collarbone. Closed her eyes.
And then opened them again to say out loud: "Holy hell, I have great clavicles."
Encouraged, Maxie kissed her shoulder.
Then her arm.
Then she stared at her own reflection in the mirror like she was about to slide herself a hotel room key.
"You're hot," she whispered.
Her mirror self winked.
Was she blushing? Maybe. From embarrassment? Possibly. But also… excitement.
She laughed. "Oh my God, I'm turned on by me."
And just when she was about to take it a step further—
DING DONG.
Her entire soul left her body.
She scrambled for the kimono tie as the doorbell rang again.
She was not expecting anyone.
Unless…
Her eyes widened.
She checked her phone.
"Oh no," she gasped. "I did order naan."
---
Standing at her door was a man holding a brown paper bag, wearing motorcycle gloves, and the kind of beard that suggested he either rode Harley-Davidsons or brewed craft beer in his bathtub.
"Delivery for… Maxie?" he said.
Maxie, still glowing from self-lotioning, clutched her kimono and nodded.
"Yes, that's me. I mean. I am me."
Smooth.
He handed her the bag. Their fingers brushed. Her skin tingled. Probably from the massage oil. Probably.
"I think you dropped something," he said.
She looked down.
A single soy sauce packet lay on the floor like a fallen soldier.
She bent to pick it up.
He bent at the same time.
Their heads bonked together with a hollow thonk.
"OW."
"Sh*t."
"I'm so sorry!" Maxie straightened, eyes watering from pain and humiliation. "I was just trying to seduce myself."
There was a pause.
He blinked.
Maxie froze.
Why the hell did I say that out loud?
He gave her a slow, amused smile.
"That's… the most honest thing anyone's said to me all day."
Maxie didn't know what to say. So she laughed. Loudly. Uncontrollably.
"Enjoy your naan," he said, grinning, and turned to leave.
"Thanks," she called after him. "And if you ever need to borrow a scented candle… you know where to find me!"
She closed the door. Leaned against it.
Then dropped to her knees in front of her own reflection.
---
Later that night, she sat in front of her mirror again, eating garlic naan in a silk robe and moaning softly—not from seduction, but from carbs.
Still, she smiled.
She'd touched herself like she mattered. She'd admired her body without apology. She'd accidentally flirted with a naan courier.
Progress.
---
Her journal entry:
Step Six: Be your own seductress. And always answer the door with a smile (and maybe pants).
(P.S. Order naan more often.)