Page 115 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Sounds like you didn’t get enough.”

“Oh no . . . I was just asking . . .” Her fingers twitch against her lap.

I lean in, tilting my head just enough that my mouth brushes close to her ear.

“What else do you want us to do?”

“Oh no, nothing! Nothing at all!” She shoots up from her chair so fast, she almost knocks it over. “How about you let me massage you?”

I barely bite back a grin as she spins toward me, looking anywhere but at my face. Before she can escape, I press a hand to her shoulder, guiding her back into her seat.

“Don’t want you tiring those hands.”

And I have no idea what I’d do if she touched me more. That wouldn’t be a massage. It’d be torture.

“I’m not fragile.”

“You aren’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be comfortable.”

Her breath hitches, just barely, but she recovers fast.

“Let’s walk through your plan for the program launch.” She turns her chair around.

I pull up the spreadsheet on my laptop, and she slides her chair closer to mine. The faint scent of her shampoo—peaches, I’m sure of it—makes it hard to focus on the screen.

“I’ve scheduled demonstrations from the rehab specialists here,” I point to a section on the timeline. “And set aside time for testimonials from some of the seniors who’ve been testing the program.”

“Is there anything I can help with?” Her eyes scan the document, and I can see her brain cataloging and organizing.

“Not really. You only need to show up, smile, and pretend to be impressed by me.”

Her fingers freeze on the trackpad, but she keeps her eyes on the screen.

“Have you thought about adding a Q&A session after the demonstrations? People might want to ask questions.”

“Already in there.” I scroll down to show her. “Right after the refreshments.”

“You really thought of everything, huh?”

“I learned from the best.” I smile, remembering how Isla used to organize every group project we did in school, color-coded folders and all.

I turn to her. “Also, Dad agreed to share his recovery story.”

“Your Dad’s going to speak?” Her eyes widened. “Really? That’s amazing!”

Before I can answer, Isla throws her arms around my neck, launching herself at me. The chair wheels squeak beneath us as I steady her, her weight shifting into my lap. Her knees slide to either side of mine, and she buries her face against my neck.

“That’s huge! Does this mean he loves the new program? I’m so happy for you. This is amazing. The seniors are going to love hearing his story—and remember how worried you were about telling him? Now he’s actually going to speak! This is incredible—”

She freezes mid-ramble, her eyes flicking to where her arm is still looped around my neck.

I chuckle. Having Isla in my arms feels right in a way I can’t put into words.

“Sorry, I just—this is big, really big. And you smell nice, no—”

She starts to pull back.

Not happening.

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