Page 16 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Jamie gave her two weeks’ notice. College acceptance came through.” I hesitate, then add, “I’m thinking of restructuring the training schedule when she leaves.”

“Makes sense.”

“Also . . . I’m thinking—”

His eyebrow raises a fraction. The same look he gave me at sixteen, right before I launched into that brilliant summer discount pitch. I felt like a marketing genius back then. He explained to me why it wouldn’t work, but I was so confident that I talked him into letting me try.

It nearly tanked the gym.

I still see Dad’s face when he had to dip into his retirement savings to fix my mess. He called it a learning experience and tried to make it a lesson about thinking things through. But I learned something else that summer: one wrong move can destroy everything you care about. I swore then I’d never disappoint him again.

I set the idea of the new program aside. Another day. When I’m absolutely sure.

“Just some minor adjustments to accommodate the staffing change,” I say instead. “Nothing major. I’ll work out the details before implementing anything.”

Dad watches me like he’s flipping through spreadsheets in his head. “Make sure you run the numbers first. A bad staffing decision can impact the bottom line for months.”

“Yes. I learned from the best.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. That’s basically a high-five in Dad’s language. Even with the accident slowing him down, he’s still Henry Collymore, the founder, legend, the man everyone in town calls coach, whether they train or not.

A burst of laughter erupts from the kitchen. Dad’s face softens, the stern lines melting away. “We should probably head in there before Isla talks your mother into making a second pie.”

“Probably too late for that.”

“Let’s set the table,” Mom calls, and Isla immediately moves to help. The rich aroma of Mom’s famous roasted vegetables fills the kitchen.

“How was your lunch with Elaine and Roxanne?” I ask Isla as we set the table.

Her cheeks flush pink instantly, and she gets very focused on lining up the silverware like it’s a precision sport. “It was good. We definitely didn’t talk about you.”

“Okay . . . what about me?”

“Nothing! Really. Absolutely nothing.”

“That’s why you speed-walked past my gym this afternoon?”

Our hands brush as Isla reaches for the same plate as me. She jumps like she’s been shocked.

She’s acting weird. Not in a bad way. In a she-knows-something-and-she’s-terrible-at-hiding-it kind of way.

Is it because she knows I’m dead serious about checking off her Love Bucket List?

“What? No! We just . . . got distracted. There was a duck. In the street.”

“Really?” I lean closer to grab the napkins, bringing us almost nose to nose. “I’m hurt, Is.”

She freezes like a startled deer, those big brown eyes widening as they lift to mine. I stay where I am. Still, close enough to feel the shift in her breathing, each inhale catching shorter than the last. The air thickens around us, heat pressing in from all sides.

Does she feel this too? This invisible lightning storm that kicks up whenever we get close? Has she ever lain awake at night wondering what would happen if one of us finally had the guts to turn this friendship into something else?

Mom and Dad are right in the kitchen, but I can’t look away from her. Isla’s got this magnetic pull on me, like trying to fight gravity.

Her eyes drop to my mouth for a split second, and every coherent thought vanishes from my brain. If I just tilt my head slightly, maybe accidentally stumble forward half a step . . . I hope Mom will forgive us for breaking a plate or two.

“Asher! Where did you put the good serving spoons?” Mom’s voice shatters the moment.

Isla leaps backward, nearly upending the water glasses. “I’ll get them!” She bolts for the kitchen.

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