Page 2 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

My traitorous heart does a little flip at his words. Not that I care what Asher thinks about my appearance. Or that he still calls me Peachie, a nickname from the time I nearly knocked myself out climbing his family’s peach tree, convinced the peaches at the top would taste sweeter. And every summer after that, he’d bring me the ripest, sweetest peaches from his family’s orchard.The good ones, Peachie. No concussions required.

Not that I think about that too much. Because that would be weird.

We’re justfriends.

With an actualfriendship pactthat we’d never date each other.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe—” Asher starts, but the piercing sound of the youth band blasting through the speakers cuts him off.

I wince, the sound cutting through the crisp air like a knife. “Maybe what?” I prompt, but Asher only shakes his head.

“Isla? Is that you?”

I turn to see a woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair. It’s Bethany Grayson, my current matchmaking client. “Bethany! Hi! How are you?”

Bethany’s eyebrows furrow. Her lips purse into a tight line. She opens her mouth to answer, but the Frosthaven Youth Band launches into another enthusiastic number, their sound amplified through the festival speakers.

Would anyone notice if I snuck over and turned the speakers down just a tiny bit? Well, at least they have a working speaker now. When the youth band’s speaker broke this morning, I offered to grab the spare I keep at my office since everyone else was scrambling. Lugging it over might’ve woken up that same old ache in my shoulder, but seeing their excited faces made it worth it.

Bethany waves a hand dismissively. “Well, let’s see,” she folds her arms. “I’m still single, and I just spent two hours yesterday listening to a guy argue with the waiter about how to pronouncebruschetta.”

My stomach twists. That date. The one I’d marked with three stars in my planner and labeledsure thing.The one I was counting on to prove my updated system was working. It was supposed to make finding the perfect match foolproof.

And I let her down.

“I—I’m so sorry about that,” I stammer, my voice wobbling as the band launches into another high note. “Every match is carefully curated based on—”

“I know your track record. That’s exactly why I signed up,” she leans in, her expression sharp. “Everyone raved about how you have this uncanny ability to understand people and really know what they need.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “But it seems like something’s changed. Every match you’ve set me up with has been a total disaster.”

Okay, ouch. Her words hit me harder than I expected, landing like a snowball to the gut, and trust me, I’m an expert on those after years of losing snowball fights to Asher.

I force a laugh, hoping to mask the hurt in my voice. “I’m really sorry, Bethany. Let me make it up to you. This isn’t how things usually go. Just—just let me have one more shot to get it right, please?”

Bethany’s expression softens and she pats my arm lightly. “Listen, I appreciate you taking this so well,” she says, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Take care, Isla.” With a quick wave, she turns and disappears into the festival crowd.

I let out a slow breath, turning back toward Asher with what I hope passes for a convincing “everything’s fine” smile.

Asher leans casually against his camera, his lips twitching into a small smirk, a dimple appearing on his cheek. “You get this little crinkle right here,” he says, tapping between his own eyebrows, “when you’re trying to pretend you’re not two seconds away from losing it. Dead giveaway.”

“You always notice the weirdest things.”

He shrugs. “Not weird if they matter.”

Huh?

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing.”

I search his face, but he’s already back to adjusting the camera.

The band, thankfully, pauses for their intermission, and the square feels slightly less chaotic.

Kyle should be here any second.

I turn back to the festival, determined to push the client’s words out of my mind. This is supposed to be the day of my big proposal, after all.

I scan the bustling festival crowd. And then I see him—Kyle, weaving his way through the sea of people, his dark hair tousled by the wind. But it’s not his windswept look that catches my attention. No, it’s the small, telltale bulge in his coat pocket.

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