Page 113 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Beautiful.

He rubs his face, still half-asleep, only to get absolutely wrecked by a violently enthusiastic tube man. His arms pinwheel, his entire body recoiling as the inflatable menace flaps against him like it holds a personal grudge. His face is a masterpiece of pure, undiluted horror as his brain tries to process the Technicolor nightmare his life has become.

And then the Pilates instructor, the one Kyle cheated with while he was still with Isla, appears, tripping over a pile of sticky notes stuck to her feet like she’s starring in a rom-com gone horribly wrong.

Isla loses it. Her laughter explodes beside me, full, unrestrained, the kind that makes her whole body shake. She leans across and lands a punch on my chest—if you can even call it that. It’s so soft, I barely feel it.

“Asher! This is insane! Tell me you didn’t do this. Tell me.”

I grin, rubbing the spot like she actually did some damage.

“I plead the fifth.”

Kyle stumbles down his porch steps and rips a handful of sticky notes off his front door, only to discover another layer of sticky notes underneath. A gust of wind hits, sending hundreds of sticky notes flying into the air. They swirl around like confetti.

They blanket Kyle and the Pilates instructor in a fluorescent blizzard, sticking to their hair, faces, and pajama-clad bodies like nature itself is mocking them. The look of pure, soul-crushing despair on his face is everything I hoped for.

“Hmm,” I tilt my head innocently. “Let’s just say I don’t really like my girlfriend’s exes . . .”

“Wait. Did you always prank my exes?”

“Not as bad as this one, really. But yeah.”

She presses her forehead against my shoulder, her body shaking from laughing. “Okay, I feel kind of bad . . . but also, thank you for unleashing some of my inner evilness. I only dared to act on it in my dreams.”

She leans up and presses a light kiss on my cheek.

Something clenches low in my gut. I keep my face still, jaw tight.

We’ve been playing the part for two weeks now, and some things have started to feel too natural. Nothing about it feels like pretending anymore. Like how she loops her arm through mine without thinking. How she leaned her head on my shoulder and laced her fingers through mine during that Frosthaven movie night in the park. How she said “babe” at the coffee shop the other day and didn’t even flinch.

I’m sure she’s getting used to it.

That’s good. That’s the plan.

“Oh! Sorry—uh—” She jerks back so fast her head knocks against the window. “I forgot—I mean, someone might see us from outside. So, you know . . . better to look like a real couple.”

She rubs her head. “What I meant to say was . . . um, thank you. You know. For being a very responsible, very upstanding fake boyfriend who takes excellent revenge on my exes.”

Fake.

My jaw tenses for half a second before I pull off a smirk. “Anytime, babe.”

She quickly turns her attention back to the crime scene.

Kyle’s now in the middle of his driveway, gesturing wildly at his yard and shouting something we can’t hear through the closed windows.

At that exact moment, one of the inflatables bends forward dramatically, as if it’s bowing directly at Kyle. Another one tips sideways, landing with a soft thump on the hood of his sticky-noted car, still flapping enthusiastically against the metal.

“Don’t worry.” I lean back casually. “It’s zip-tied to his porch. It’s not going anywhere.”

A few elderly next-door neighbors shuffle outside, because obviously, nothing in Frosthaven is complete without the senior citizen fan club. Mrs. Henderson whips out her phone. Probably to send it to her knitting group.

And Nancy Fitzpatrick, Frosthaven’s most relentless (and, unfortunately, only) professional news reporter. She’s already in full attack mode, cornering Kyle like he’s the lead suspect in a high-stakes crime drama.

Kyle, still tragically barefoot except for his single bunny slipper, looks like he’s going through all five stages of grief in real-time. His hands flail in wild protest as Nancy shoves a microphone close to his face.

Isla is laughing again with tears streaming down her face. She clutches her stomach, barely able to speak. “Should we help them?”

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