Page 15 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

His dark brown hair is a little messy, pushed back like he ran his hands through it and forgot to fix it. When he turns to talk, the light skims along his sculpted jawline. I’m convinced some divine sculptor spent three years getting it that perfect.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Being friendly. Unlike some people who pretend not to see their best friends.”

Just as I reach for Elaine’s arm to drag her away, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

ASHER

Wanna come in? I can squeeze you into my schedule today.

ISLA

Oh. About that . . . I’ve recently developed a rare allergy to burpees.

Chapter 4

Asher

“Yourtechniquehasimproveddramatically since you were eight.”

I lean against the doorframe of my parents’ living room, watching Dad release Isla’s thumb with exaggerated defeat.

“You mean since you started letting me win?” Isla’s face lights up, her lips curving into that familiar, radiant smile.

It never gets old watching Dad turn into a total marshmallow around her. Hard to believe it’s the same no-nonsense guy who made me run laps for forgetting to re-rack a kettlebell.

When Isla’s mom, Christine, moved in next door after the divorce, it didn’t take long for her and my mom to reconnect. They’ve been best friends since high school, and before long, Thursday dinners became a standing tradition. Just the two families at first, until it grew into something bigger. Back then, neighbors like Elaine, Roxanne, and Xander’s family would often join in.

Somewhere along the way, Dad stepped in, becoming a kind of honorary second father to Isla and Conner. He showed up for every school play, white-knuckled his way through their driving lessons, and even let Mom teach him how to braid hair so he could take Isla to those awkward father-daughter dances.

Thumb wars are just part of the routine now. One of those weird little traditions that stuck.

And lucky me, I got to grow up with Isla always close by.

“Let you win? I would never—”

“Isla! Is that you? Come help me with these pies!” Mom’s voice calling from the kitchen.

Isla perks up like someone just rang the dessert bell. “Coming, Margaret! Sorry, Henry, but pie trumps thumb wars. Rematch after dessert!”

She disappears into the kitchen, and Dad settles back in his chair, the quiet and serious weight folding in around us. He spent years working as a trainer in other gyms before building Collymore Fitness from the ground up. Even at sixty-two, the man’s built like a tank, broad shoulders, barrel chest, the kind of presence that makes you stand up straighter when he walks into a room.

I drop into the seat across from him, the old leather couch groaning under my weight. The room goes quiet except for the muffled sounds of Mom and Isla in the kitchen. On the mantel, decades of Collymore Fitness photos line up in perfect order. Dad cutting ribbons, shaking hands, building the legacy I’m now responsible for not screwing up.

It was Dad’s car accident that pulled me in. I started helping out, picking up the pieces while he recovered. But he was nearly fully recovered by the time he signed the gym over to me.

Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t just step back in. But most days, I wonder if he regrets handing over the reins.

He doesn’t say it, and I don’t ask.

“So.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me about the gym.”

I sit up straighter. “Membership’s up eight percent from last quarter. The new equipment’s been a hit.”

Dad shifts, a brief grimace tugging at his face as he adjusts in his chair. It’s been five years since the accident, and he’s done the work, rehab, recovery, all of it. But the twinge still sneaks up sometimes. Not that he’d say a word. He’d probably volunteer to deadlift a Buick before admitting his back still acts up.

“Good. And the staffing situation?”

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