Page 10 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

I sink back into my chair, the worn cushion sighing beneath me. Across the desk, myLove By Designmug sits half-full, its cheerful pink lettering suddenly way too optimistic for how this day is going.

Five years ago, I built this business from scratch in this very office. It was after I quietly—okay, secretly—matched my mom with Victor. I still remember seeing that lit up smile on her face that she hadn’t worn since Dad left, a version of her I thought was long gone.

I think I cried just as much as she did the day Victor told her he loved her.

And that’s when I knew I wanted to help other people find that kind of love, too.

But now I’m staring at an almost empty client list and watching my personal disaster bleed into my professional life.

A sharp pinch blooms in my shoulder. I reach up and rub at it, trying to work out the stubborn ache that always settles there when I’m overwhelmed. The tension clings tighter than it has in weeks. Before I can wear it down, a sharp knock at the office door yanks me back to the present. I sit up and smooth my skirt.

“Come in!”

It’s Jen, my assistant. “Um, Isla? Do you have a minute?”

“Of course!” I push aside my own worries and straighten in my chair like I’m not having the worst day of my career. “How’s your mom doing? Any better since her hip surgery last week?”

“She’s getting there,” Jen’s lips curving into a faint smile. “Those meals you sent over really helped.”

Jen’s mom, Laura, is the kind of woman who still writes handwritten thank-you notes and gives out butterscotch candies to kids at the pharmacy. If someone in town needs help, she’s already five steps ahead. Bringing her a few meals was the least I could do.

I wave off her thanks with a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it. I just made a little extra and figured she could use something warm and comforting. Now, please tell me what’s going on.”

Jen steps inside, wringing her hands. “So, there’s been some talk around town about . . . you know.” She glances at the floor. “The Festival incident.”

Of course, there has. My love life is now Frosthaven’s hottest topic, spreading faster than a viral TikTok dance. I can practically hear the town’s gossip mill cranking into overdrive. Mrs. Henderson, the retired librarian, is probably leading the charge with her knitting circle of doom. And the ever-gossipy town Facebook group is already blowing up with dramatic posts.

Maybe I should just change my name and move to a remote island.

I paste on a smile so fake it could probably be seen from space. “Oh, that old news? I’m sure people have already moved on to something juicier by now.”

“Well . . .” Jen shifts her weight. “Kyle’s been doing more than just talking. He started a review blog about local businesses.”

My fake smile freezes. “Let me guess. We’re his first target?”

“He’s saying your matchmaking methods are outdated and unreliable,” Jen says with a wince. “He used your recent failed matches as proof and wrote another piece practically worshipping Diane, like her way of matchmaking is the only one that works. Then he plastered your ‘failures’ and her success story all over his socials. You know how far his stuff reaches. Now Diane looks like the new matchmaking queen.”

Diane. The big-city matchmaker who rolled into town a few weeks ago as part of her grand small-town expansion, armed with fancy branding, luxury packages, and a price tag that could make your wallet cry.

“There’s more,” Jen adds, her voice gentle. “He’s been going around town, telling your clients to switch to Diane’s service. Saying the high price means higher success, even if it stretches their budget.”

Matchmaking has always been part of Frosthaven’s charm. Legend has it the first two settlers didn’t come here to build a town—they were just two travelers stranded during a brutal winter who fell in love and decided to stay. Locals like to say the town was founded on romance . . . and a really good wood stove.

Over the years, people started honoring their story by helping others find love too—passing notes, nudging neighbors, setting up accidental run-ins. Eventually, a few locals began offering matchmaking as an actual service and proposed starting the town’s Annual Matchmaking Gala. From there, it grew into a full-on tradition.

Even when the town started to slow down after the old paper mill closed and more families left for work in the city, the Annual Matchmaking Gala never missed a year. The mayor and the committee believed in holding onto tradition.

But a few years ago, something shifted. More people started signing up—locals, even people from out of town. Maybe it was Zoe, my fellow matchmaker’s fresh energy. Maybe it was the two of us insisting on offering a boutique-level service at a fraction of what other matchmakers charge.

Because we both believed the same thing: love should be for everyone.

We’ve both been lucky to help a lot of people find their person. But Zoe moved to Arizona two months ago, which left me the only one still fighting to keep the service affordable.

“How many cancellations?” I ask.

“Four more this morning through emails,” Jen says quietly, scrolling through her phone. “That leaves us with zero clients.”

I blink. “Zero?”

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