Page 108 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

My heart stops, then kicks back in, harder this time. It’s one thing to wonder if she feels what I feel. But knowing she’s been thinking about kissing me, too?

That’s something else entirely.

Even half-asleep, Isla wouldn’t say it if she didn’t mean it. Would she?

My fingers gently trace the curve of her bottom lip, feeling its silken softness beneath my touch. “Do you want to find out how your best friend kisses?”

“Maybe.” Her lips part slightly. “Maybe I do . . .”

Her breathing begins to slow, the shift so subtle I almost miss it. Her hand loosens on my arm, fingers relaxing, but not letting go.

I stay frozen for a long moment, every nerve alive. Her words still hang in the air. It takes everything in me not to close the space between us. Not to press my lips to hers like I’ve wanted for years.

As much as I want to, I won’t take that moment from her. Not when she’s half-asleep. Not when she might not remember.

Our first kiss, when it happens, will be when she’s fully present. When she chooses it, completely.

I adjust her blanket with my free hand, resigned to the fact that I’m not going anywhere tonight.

“Don’t forget the marshmallow ladder . . .” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Won’t,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Promise.”

Chapter 28

Isla

Somethingwarmandsolidpresses against my side.

Mochi?

He’s been on a roll lately, sneaking into my bed like he pays rent.

But . . . Mochi doesn’t breathe this deep. Or smell like cedarwood. He’s not this warm . . .

My eyes snap open.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I’m curled against my best friend. Like full-body, cheek-on-his-chest, hand-still-in-his-hand curled against him.

I jolt back, trying to put some space between us. Yes. Space is good. Because curling around your best friend like a human pretzel is definitely not in the fake dating handbook.

Asher’s lying half beside me, one elbow propped like it’s the most normal thing in the world. His white shirt is wrinkled to oblivion. Oh no. Has he been sleeping in his dress shirt all night? That can’t be comfortable.

His turquoise eyes are soft and half-lidded, lashes dipping low as he watches me.

“Morning, Peachie.” His lips pull into that lazy curve.

How long has he been looking at me like that? How long have I been drooling, or snoring, or saying something horrifying in my sleep?

His fingers rake through his already-messy hair, pushing it back like he doesn’t even know he’s starring in my personal romance novel.

Forget butterflies—I get a whole marching band in my stomach.

The dress I wore last night is twisted around my legs, and my hair feels like a bird made a nest in it overnight. My mouth is probably sleep-dry and tragic. And he’s lying there like he just walked out of a“Here’s what your fictional boyfriend looks like in the morning”Pinterest board.

How did we end up like this? I remember the hilltop, dancing under the stars, crying about my dad, my heel breaking, and a hazy memory of him carrying me. And me telling him to stay . . .

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