Page 124 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Went to my father’s place yesterday.

I’ll be there today. I’m sorry.

Can we talk?

ASHER

Yes. Drive safe.

“Nowremember,it’snotabout how far you can stretch—it’s about how it feels in your body,” I demonstrate the modified seated twist, keeping my back straight as I guide Mrs. Henderson’s hand to her opposite knee. “For those recovering from shoulder injuries, this variation keeps the strain off while still giving you the benefits.”

Mrs. Henderson, seventy-three years young and dressed head-to-toe in hot pink workout gear, gives me a mischievous wink. “I was doing the splits well into my seventies, dear. Don’t you worry about my flexibility.”

The small crowd of seniors gathered for my demonstration erupts in laughter. I step aside, grabbing my water bottle for a quick sip.

The gym is buzzing with activity. Exactly what I’d hoped for the Senior and Adaptive Program launch. Gavin’s leading a gentle mobility demonstration in the corner, while Winnie, one of my best yoga instructors, demonstrates chair yoga near the windows.

Conner and Xander stand near the water cooler with my dad. All three of them look serious, Dad nodding along while Conner talks, probably about the program or some town development plans.

Hopefully not about how I kissed his sister yesterday and scared her off right after.

I scan the gym entrance for the fifteenth time in twenty minutes.

Still no Isla.

Her text from 5:47 a.m. is burning a hole in my pocket and my brain. No hint of what “can we talk?” means after she literally ran away from me last night.

From the best kiss of my life.

“Earth to Asher!” Connie waves her bedazzled water bottle in front of my face. “You’re a million miles away, young man.”

“Sorry.” I turn and smile at Connie. She’s wearing her matching teal tracksuit and the rhinestone-encrusted sneakers that perfectly coordinate with her water bottle. Her silver curls are tucked under a headband that reads “Fitness Queen.”

She and Fred have been front and center all morning, enthusiastically introducing the senior-friendly equipment I specifically ordered after Dad’s recovery.

“Just thinking about how much you two have helped get this program off the ground,” I say, nodding toward Fred, who’s proudly showing another senior how to adjust the resistance bands. “How do you think everything looks?”

“I think it’s perfect, darling,” she says, patting my arm with surprising strength for someone her size. “But where’s your girlfriend?”

The question hits like a medicine ball to the chest.

“She’s, uh—she had some personal business to take care of.” Not a lie, technically. Driving five hours to confront your long-lost father definitely counts as personal business.

Before Connie can pry further, Mrs. Henderson struts over, moving with the kind of confidence that can only come from seventy years of knowing you’re fabulous. “Well, tell her she’s missing quite a show,” Mrs. Henderson says, as she comes to us, giving me a slow once-over, one perfectly penciled-in eyebrow raised. “Though I suppose she gets private demonstrations.”

I’d give private demonstrations every day if that would change Isla’s mind.

“Mrs. H!” Connie smacks her arm. “That’s not appropriate!”

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Henderson waves a dismissive hand. “I survived three husbands. If I want to admire a fine specimen, I will.”

The group erupts into laughter. I shake my head, adjusting the towel around my neck. Dad finishes with Conner and Xander, then heads my way. My grip on the towel tightens.

“Can I have a second?” Dad asks, gesturing toward the quieter corner.

“Sure,” I nod, following him.

My stomach tightens as we step away from the crowd. Dad looks sharp and serious today. His salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, shoulders straight despite the slight limp he still carries from the accident. The same commanding presence I’ve always admired, always tried to live up to.

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