Page 20 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

The small whiteboard hangs next to his door. It’s our shared message board for emergency snack requests and random notes.

Isla: Why does the lavender-chamomile tea you make taste better than mine?

Asher: I didn’t forget about it and let it steep for 20 years.

My knuckles rap against the door in a frantic rhythm that matches my racing heart. Every fiber of my being is screaming that this plan is terrible. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and my rapidly imploding matchmaking business definitely qualifies as desperate.

It’s almost too convenient how close we still live. Three years ago, when Mom remarried, I decided it was time to fly the nest. And Asher just happened to mention one of his gym clients was renting out a place next door to his apartment and offered a can’t-pass-up price. The price was so unbelievable I had to read the listing three times before I let myself believe it was real. It was a lifesaver, especially with my tight budget after starting my matchmaking business.

Sometimes, I wonder if Asher bribed the landlord.

It all fell into place too fast and too easily. We live so close that I can smell his cinnamon protein pancakes in the morning and catch a glimpse of how ridiculously good he looks in his workout gear every day.

Too bad he’ll never be mine.

I knock on his door several more times, even though I know the passcode. If he doesn’t answer, that’s the universe telling me he’s busy, and I should wait a few more days before springing my grand plan on him.

Just as I’m about to chicken out and bolt, the door swings open.

Asher’s eyebrows are knitted together in concern. Water droplets cascade from his tousled hair, glimmering like tiny jewels before they journey south, directly down his sculpted chest.

Oh, good grief. A shirtless Asher.

“Did something happen, Is?” His eyes search my face, the little line between his brows deepening. “You know you can just come in, right?”

A rush of heat floods my cheeks. Nothing usable comes out of my mouth because all my functional brain cells have apparently packed up at the sight of my very shirtless, very hot best friend standing right in front of me.

Another droplet slides down the curve of his shoulder, across his collarbone, and lower. It slips between the ridges of his chest and drags over the cut lines of his abs, every groove crisp and defined. His muscles aren’t the bulky, overdone kind but the lean, powerful build that comes from years of actual work.

I have to attempt that square breathing trick I read about somewhere. In for four. Hold. Out for six. In for four. Out for—

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Is? You okay?” His bicep flexes as he shifts in the doorway.

I’m NOT checking out my best friend right now.

I’m NOT counting the ridiculously defined muscles on his stomach.

I’m absolutely NOT noticing how his torso looks like it’s been chiseled by angels who clearly worked overtime.

One. Two. Three . . . Is that an eight-pack?

I swallow hard, trying to suppress the dryness in my throat. It’s not like I’ve never seen Asher shirtless before. We’ve practically grown up together, for crying out loud.

“If you’re trying to telepathically tell me something, I’m gonna need a little more to go on than stunned silence.”

Right. Words. I should use those.

“I, uh . . . important business!” My eyes are darting anywhere but at his eyes. “Very urgent. Yep. Super urgent.”

Since when did his shoulders look that broad?

“Urgent, huh?” He leans one toned arm against the doorframe.

Why does that one muscle keep doing that thing?

“I’m not . . . I mean . . .” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Can I come in? I promise it won’t take long.”

“Come in. And I don’t mind if it takes a while.”

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