Page 135 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Something that looks a little too much like what Isla and Asher just promised each other.

But it is fine. I am fine.

I just need a piece of cake.

Preferably with enough frosting.

I beeline toward the food table, clutching a napkin and an unhealthy amount of hope.

And there it is. The last slice.

Corner piece. Double frosting. Sponge like a dream. Sitting on its little glass pedestal like a sugary, emotional support icon.

I grab the knife, ready to commit dessert-based larceny.

A hand slides into view and lifts the plate right out from under me. It’s big and tan, veins flexing just enough to be obnoxious. The kind of hand that’s gripped hockey sticks, signed endorsement deals, and probably closed some ridiculous business deal over brunch.

I don’t even have to look up.

Conner Ennis.

The world’s most aggravating best friend’s twin brother.

I never understood how twins could come out so completely differently. Isla has warmth, loyalty, and a perfectly reasonable sense of humility. Conner has a permanent smirk, ego, and cheekbones that have been personally offending me since fourth grade.

We were in the same class every year. Same school projects. Same science fair table. He never missed a chance to sabotage my poster board, borrow my pencil, or charm the teacher into letting him go first.

And now here he is. Stealing the last piece of cake like it is just another day of ruining my life for fun.

He stands across from me, smug as sin and holding a fork. “You weren’t about to take this, were you?”

“You don’t even like cake,” I snap.

“I like justice,” he says, already cradling the plate like a newborn. “And I got here first.”

“I was literally cutting it.”

“You paused.”

“I was admiring the frosting!”

“Amateur move, Cupcake.” He stretches his arm up, holding it over his head like a human vending machine that only serves heartbreak. “You want it? Come get it.”

“Put it down.”

He grins. “You know the rules. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“And the other tenth is common decency, which you clearly skipped in kindergarten.”

He smirks, slow and smug. “Didn’t skip. Got detention.”

“Put it down, pastry thief.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You know, I missed this. You yelling at me over baked goods.”

“You know what I missed? Not you.”

I lunge. He jerks his arm up, stepping back like he’s still on skates, fast and fluid. I grab for his wrist. He pivots, shifting the plate just out of reach, and now we’re circling each other like this is a dessert-themed dance battle I definitely didn’t sign up for.

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