Page 105 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Those walking shoes are looking pretty good now, huh?” Asher’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his dimple deepening as he grins. “Still regretting turning them down when I offered them earlier?”

“Don’t.” I try to glare, but it’s impossible when he’s looking at me like that. “Just . . . don’t.”

I try to step back, to reclaim some dignity, but my broken shoe makes me wobble. Asher crouches beside me, inspecting the damage with that infuriating smirk of his. His fingers brush against my ankle as he examines the broken heel, sending little electric shocks up my leg.

“Looks like you’re officially out of commission,” he declares, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“It’s fine. I’ll just—”

Before I can finish my sentence, Asher stands and scoops me up. One hand under my knees, the other steady against my back. My world tilts as he lifts me effortlessly against his chest. I yelp, my hands fly up, locking around his neck.

The ground vanishes beneath me. My dress bunches awkwardly between us, and I’m eye-level with him. I’m sure my cheeks are burning hot enough to melt snow.

“Asher! Put me down!”

“Not a chance.”

Chapter 27

Asher

Thedrivebackisquiet, the hum of the engine a gentle backdrop to Isla’s soft breathing beside me. The warmth of her still lingers in my arms. The fabric where her cheek rested is still a little damp.

But it’s the part when she tried not to cry that gets me. The way she blinked fast and pretended the tears weren’t there. The way she keeps a wall around her heart like it’s the only way to survive.

It twists something in me. Deep and raw.

I want to see her real happiness. Not the polite kind, not the one she puts on for everyone else. The real kind. The kind that lights her from the inside out.

I want to be the one who gives her that. Prove to her I’m not going anywhere. No matter what storms come.

“Thank you,” she says, breaking the silence. “For tonight. For the hilltop. For the dance.” She turns to face me, her eyes reflecting the dashboard lights. “For listening. For . . . everything you said.”

I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the road. “No thanks needed, Peachie.”

Isla shifts in her seat, angling toward me. “How’s the Senior and Adaptive launch event coming along? Did you get that physical therapist from Ridgewood for the panel discussion?”

“Got most of the details ironed out. Just need to finalize a few things.” The warmth in my chest grows. Even with everything on her plate, she’s been keeping track of my project. “The therapist is in. Called yesterday to confirm. Now I’m just wrestling with the layout for the equipment stations. Want to make sure everything is accessible without feeling clinical.”

“You know what would be perfect?” She straightens in her seat, her voice brighter like a switch just flipped. “Your dad could speak! About his recovery journey. And you could talk about how it inspired the whole program.”

“My dad?” My hands tighten on the wheel.

“Yes. It would be so powerful.”

“That’s . . . actually a great idea. I just don’t know if he’d be willing to talk about the accident publicly. He’s not exactly the sharing type.”

“But that’s exactly why it would mean a lot to people,” Isla says, her voice softening. “To show that even strong people like your dad can need help sometimes. And that’s okay.”

I let her words sink in, picturing my father standing before a crowd, sharing the story that changed both our lives. It’s hard to imagine him opening up like that, letting people see the cracks.

And harder still to picture what he’d think, standing in the same gym he built, watching this new program take shape by my hands.

I hope he’d like the way his son’s carrying it forward.

“Besides, he’s proud of you. And I’m sure he’ll be proud of the new program,” she says, stifling a yawn. “I can tell.”

Something in my chest softens, quiet and unexpected. I grip the wheel tighter, resisting the urge to pull her in. She probably has no idea how much her words matter. Or how much she does.

---