Page 112 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Chapter 29

Asher

Isla’swearingmyhoodie.

It wasn’t the plan. But she spilled coffee on her blouse five minutes after we left the apartment the next morning, muttering something about tragic caffeine sabotage, and then pulled my backup hoodie from the backseat like it was a perfectly reasonable solution.

Now she’s swimming in fleece, sleeves halfway down her hands

There’s something dangerously tempting about seeing your girl—okay, not officially, but still—in your hoodie. Like some primal part of my brain just lit a victory flag and sat back smug.

“Asher, this isn’t the way to the gym.”

Isla sits up straighter, her brow furrowing as she glances out the window at the unfamiliar route.

She’s not wrong. We’re supposed to be heading to my gym to finalize everything for the Senior and Adaptive Programs launch event. She’s been supporting me from the start, making the process much easier.

“Just wait.” I keep my voice easy, my grip on the wheel steady, but the smirk tugging at my lips is hard to control. “I have something to show you.”

“Show me what? The program launch is in two days, and we have so much to—”

“It’ll just take a minute. Trust me.”

I’ve been taking every chance to surprise her lately. A couple of days ago, I reserved the corner booth at the donut shop and slipped the barista a twenty to ice “Peachie” on her favorite one. And the bookstore owner just happened to hold onto that out-of-print romance novel she’d been searching for.

I make a left turn into a residential area. Kyle’s neighborhood.

I keep my expression neutral. How is Isla going to react? She could laugh. Or I’ll get the full Isla Ennis glare. Or she’ll demand I turn the car around.

Hopefully, Conner actually got the timing right.

Everything looks normal as we roll down the street. Driveways, mailboxes, perfectly trimmed.

“Oh. My. Gosh.”

Isla gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth as she catches sight of what I’ve been waiting for.

I slow the car, keeping my expression neutral even as my fingers tighten slightly on the wheel, fighting the urge to grin.

Kyle’s house stands before us, completely covered in sticky notes. Thousands of them—yellow, pink, blue, green—plastered over every inch of the windows, doors, and siding. His car hasn’t escaped either, wrapped in a rainbow of paper that makes it look like a deranged art project.

But that’s not even the best part.

Standing in perfect formation across his front yard is an army of at least fifty wacky inflatable tube men, their neon bodies flailing wildly. They bow and snap back up in a chaotic dance, like some kind of demented welcoming committee.

A long, stunned silence fills the car.

“Asher Collymore. Did you do this?” Isla gapes, half laughing, half horrified, hands flying to her head like she needs to physically hold in her thoughts.

“Not the best part yet. Wait.”

I pull the car to a stop across the street for the perfect front-row view.

Right on cue, a loud, obnoxious song blasts from hidden speakers. Something terrible. Something Conner absolutely chose on purpose.

Oh yeah. I’m paying him in steak dinners for the rest of the year.

Kyle bursts through his front door wearing plaid pajama pants, one bunny slipper, and absolutely nothing else—except for a neon “Kiss the Chef” apron.

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