Page 22 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Oh no. Is that the air he wants to clear?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You think that I . . . rejected . . . um—”

Stop. Stop. Stop.

A hot flush rushes straight to my ears, melting whatever was left of the heavy Dad memory. Sad, I can handle. But this? This is the kind of top-tier embarrassment that makes you want to vanish into the floor. Especially when it’s happening in front of the one person you really wish it wasn’t.

“Not such a thing. Must’ve been the sunstroke. Or maybe you dreamed it. Or maybe I dreamed it.”

Asher’s brow furrows. His jaw goes rigid. I want to crawl into the couch cushions and disappear.

“I thought you mis—”

I clap my hand over his mouth. My fingertips brush against the faint scratch of stubble.Oh. His lips are warm. And soft.

“Nope and nope. Water . . . water under the bridge. All good.”

We arenotcracking open that awkward memory. We are not dusting it off, not holding it up to the light, not revisiting the moment when he oh-so-kindly rejected me.

We are pretending it never happened. I survived. We’re good. No need to mess with that.

No need to add another embarrassment to my permanent record.

His mouth moves beneath my palm.Oh.My hand is still on his face. On his lips.

I yank my hand back like I’ve touched a hot stove. He leans back. A slow breath fills his chest. His jaw tightens, the muscle pulling taut beneath his skin. I’m pretty sure he’s counting to five in his head.

“We’re all clear, right?” I ask once I’ve counted to five myself.

“If you say so.”

I don’t know why he wants to bring up something from years ago. But I don’t ask. I’d rather forget the whole thing. I don’t want to remember how he couldn’t meet my eyes, how tense he got trying not to let me down.

The silence stretches between us like a frayed wire. I lunge to grab the TV remote from the far end of the coffee table. A cooking show is definitely the mature way to avoid awkward moments like this.

A sharp zap slices through my shoulder like I just got tasered by my own body. I freeze mid-stretch, hissing through my teeth.

Asher sits up fast. “Your shoulder again?”

“It’s nothing,” I wave him off. There are more important things to worry about than an old injury that’ll probably fix itself, eventually.

Before I can protest further, he moves behind me. His warm hands find my shoulders, settling into their usual spots.

“Ash, I’m here to talk . . .” My voice is already turning to mush. “About something else. Important things. Not . . . this.”

Ever since I started having shoulder pain, he’s appointed himself as my personal tension-reliever, whether I ask for it or not.

“Shh. Later.” His thumbs are digging into that magical pressure point like he’s got a PhD in Shoulder Rescue. “Still hurts?”

“It’s fine. Just that it acts up sometimes.”

His fingers are still for a moment, and he takes a deep breath.

“You never did get this checked out, did you?”

“I don’t need to. It comes and goes.” It’s just a minor thing anyway, nothing worth bothering anyone.

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