Excerpt from Seduction Theory by Emily Adrian, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Hello Abigail," Simone said. "Were you at the party last night? Did you have more fun than my husband?"

Abigail spoke into her grocery sack. "I love dogs, so."

Simone's smile was broad and genuine. Weirdos were her weakness.

"We found Joyce Lockhart's dog," Ethan explained. "Stepped outside for some air and there he was."

Ethan's embarrassment in the moment was out of proportion with what was happening. His secretary was talking to his wife. His wife was beautiful, and his secretary's neck was slick with sunscreen. Abigail asked about their plans for the summer: they were going to Oregon, the annual trip Ethan received in exchange for living in the Northeast, where people referred to anything outside as "nature." His mom, Lois, still lived in Portland, and he missed his mom. His missing Lois could not compete with Simone missing her mother, who was dead.

"Portland? I'm going there too. Middle of July," Abigail said. "Maybe we — "

Ethan laughed. "Well."

The three of them stood on the sidewalk smiling at each other.





Jogging is foreplay. Those spandex-clad couples wearing fanny packs and shamelessly sweating outside the coffee shop, they're about to fuck. Whenever I saw Simone and Ethan out for their Saturday morning 5k — her stride short and efficient, his bouncy,

uncontrolled — I would torture myself picturing what came next. She would keep her sports bra and shorts on when she straddled him. Her kink was staying partially dressed. She liked the implications, which, in her imagination, were power and urgency. Atop her husband she spread her knees, allowing him to pull the damp crotch of her shorts to one side and push his fingers into her. She cried out often and because she could. They had no roommates. No kids.

Simone found language for her orgasm. "Like skipping a stone across a pond, the stone hitting six or seven times."

"Very nice," Ethan said sincerely. "There's something I want to tell you."

"Same," Simone said. "You go first."

"I think I'm becoming friends with Abigail."

Ethan was never sure what his wife would say. Simone wasn't prone to stock phrases or detachment. She was the most alert person he'd ever met: a student of each moment of her life.

What she said was "I think that's exciting."

That his wife didn't question his need to confess his friendship with another woman seemed to excuse Ethan from any guilt or introspection. Did he realize it wasn't Simone's job to scrutinize his motives? No. Unthinkingly, he trusted his wife to prevent his self-destruction. He believed her judgement automatic and accurate — a spousal superpower.

"Men should be friends with women, because women know how to be friends," Simone said.

"Men don't?"

"Not really. Men have colleagues and tennis partners. Drinking buddies. They send each other Spotify links. If a more meaningful bond develops over the years, then maybe you tend to it. Whereas there's this woman in the history department — you've met Sandy. The first time we had coffee she showed me a picture of her stillborn baby."

Ethan felt lightheaded. If anyone showed him a picture of a dead body over coffee at Manic Mondays — amid that mess of kitsch and '90s ephemera, the damp backpacks and shrill laughter of his own students — he would pass out on the floor. "Weren't you horrified?"

Simone's contemplative habit was to watch the ceiling fan. "Sandy was trying to tell me what she had endured. That was generous, I think. She wanted me to know our friendship didn't have to be superficial."

"What did you do?"

"I cried."

"You cried at Manic Mondays?"

"We both did."

"Who would even think to take a picture? I mean, you're in the hospital and you've just suffered this terrible tragedy ... "

"They send in a photographer. It's optional. It's the only picture you're going to get."

Excerpted from Seduction Theory by Emily Adrian. Copyright © 2025 by Emily Adrian. Excerpted by permission of Little Brown & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.