Page 116 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

I tighten my hands on her waist. She’s warm and soft and perfect in my lap. In my hoodie. And yeah . . . that does something to me. Not just the way it looks—though it’s a sight I wouldn’t mind getting used to.

“You know,” My fingers flex slightly, feeling the soft curve of her beneath my palms. “Most people just say congratulations.”

Her weight shifts slightly on my lap, tilting her head in a way that makes me want to kiss the thoughts right out of her mind. A sharp jolt runs through me, tightening my chest.

I want to pull her closer. Want to let her feel exactly what she’s doing to me. I exhale slowly through my nose.

“I’m . . . sorry . . .” She inhales sharply

“I’m not complaining.”

My hand slides up her back, tracing the curve of her spine. We’re both breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling against mine. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.

Neither of us moves.

“I’ve always wondered . . .” Her fingers toy with a few strands of my hair, tugging just slightly before letting them go.

Every muscle in my body locks up, tension coiling tight in my stomach. I force myself to remain still. I need to hear her say it. Need to know this isn’t just in my head.

“What do you want, Peachie?”

Chapter 30

Isla

Ihavenoideawhat I’m doing.

Ask me later, or maybe don’t ever ask me. All I know is—I want to knowthisone thing about my best friend.

Right here. Right now. In his hoodie.

I didn’t spill the coffee on purpose, I swear. But I’m also not exactly complaining. It smells like him. Warm, clean, a little cedarwood, and a lot of comfort.

His hands clench into fists and release against my back, over and over again.

“I’ve always wondered what kind of kisser you are . . .” I wet my lips.

His body goes rigid, every muscle locking tight like coiled steel. But he hasn’t moved one inch.

“Depends on whether she’s a real or fake girlfriend.”

“What’s the difference?”

Asher’s hand slowly slides up to cradle the back of my head. His fingers stroke through my hair.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

My scalp tingles, and every cell feels like it’s buzzing with electricity, like those science fair volcanoes but with butterflies instead of baking soda.

“Pick one.”

I should run. Laugh it off, make a joke, pretend I was just messing around.

“Real one.” I hold my breath.

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