Page 21 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Asher steps back, giving me space to enter. My shoulder bumps his bare chest, and something zings straight down to my toes like a caffeine shot to the soul. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t step back.

Is he feeling it too?

Maybe I’m just imagining it. Either way, it does absolutely nothing to help my scrambled thoughts.

“Let me grab a shirt, and then you can tell me all about this urgent business.” He heads toward his bedroom.

His apartment is clean and minimal, with all cool grays and deep blues. Everything has its place, from the precisely arranged dumbbells in the corner to the protein shaker lined up perfectly with his coffee maker.

The bookshelf near the window has our shared collection that’s grown so much over the years. We read each other’s books, trading stories and opinions. There’s only one kind of book I won’t share with him. My secret stash of romance novels.

I keep those tucked away because more than one ex, Kyle included, laughed and called them silly. Unrealistic. After that, I stopped talking about those books with guys. It just seemed easier. I don’t know what Asher would think. But I’ve learned it’s usually safer not to bring it up.

But sometimes, I wonder what it might look like in real life. What it would feel like to have a boyfriend who actually does those things. What it would feel like ifAsherever did them.

The hand-braced-on-the-wall kisses.

Theyou were always minespeeches.

Stop it.

I’m here on a mission. A completely platonic, totally professional mission to find Asher his perfect match and save my business.

I perch on the edge of Asher’s couch, my end of the couch, since I’ve claimed that corner as my designated spot during our weekly movie nights. The blanket I always use is already folded and waiting.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out.

UNKNOWN

Hi Isla. It’s your dad. I know it’s been a long time.

I inhale sharply, the air catching at the top of my lungs. The memory flashes like lightning.

Seven-year-old me stood frozen at the window, clutching the teddy bear Dad gave me, watching as he drove away. Conner was beside me, holding a half-built LEGO spaceship. Dad said he was going away for work. But we knew something was off. He never packed that much for a trip.

The stars were sharp that night, too many for a night that was breaking everything apart.

For weeks after, Conner and I would stand at that same window, telling Mom we were watching the stars. But we were waiting. Still believing he’d come back.

Until we didn’t.

It must be a scam. Maybe the same kind that once offered me a cursed heirloom or told me I’d won a cruise I never entered. I lock the screen and shove the phone deep into my bag. No one disappears for twenty-one years and suddenly decides to text.

Especially not to the people they abandoned.

Asher emerges from his bedroom, thankfully fully clothed this time. He plops down next to me, close enough that I catch that woody scent of him. I inhale deeply. Something about his scent settles the uneasy thrum curling in my chest.

“You okay? You look . . .” His brow furrows.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just a spam text.”

I’ve barely mentioned my dad to Asher. Or anyone, really. It’s the kind of topic our family pretends never existed.

“Okay.” His brows ease, and he shifts to face me. “Before we talk about whatever brought you here . . . Can we clear the air first?”

“Um . . . What air, exactly?”

“That day at the lake, after Greg broke up with you . . . You asked me—”

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