Page 3 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

A ring box.

Should I look surprised? Tearful? How will I gush about this moment to my friends later? I can already picture their faces when I show them the ring, their squeals of excitement echoing in my ears.

“Can’t believe I’m recording this,” Asher mutters, his voice barely audible over the din of the festival.

My foot starts tapping involuntarily as I watch Kyle approach. He looks a little distracted, probably nervous about the big moment.

I’m about to wave when another woman approaches Kyle. My hand freezes mid-air. She’s stunning, all long legs and perfect hair, looking like she just stepped out of a winter fashion catalog.

Okay, don’t panic. Maybe it’s a client of his?I try to squash the uneasy feeling in my gut.Or his sister? Cousin? Long-lost childhood friend?

But then she puts her hand on his arm, and he laughs. It’s not the polite chuckle he givesmyjokes. No, it’s intimate, the kind of laugh I’ve been trying to coax out of him for months.

Maybe he’s practicing how to propose with a stranger. That’s sweet, right? Like a dress rehearsal for the real thing.

The woman reaches for Kyle’s pocket, her fingers brushing against the fabric where the ring box is tucked. My stomach plummets as he pulls it out and presses it into her hand without hesitation.

She leans in, close enough to whisper something in his ear, her lips just barely brushing his skin. Kyle chuckles, his hand sliding to her waist, holding her there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I freeze. The truth slams into me like a wave of icy water. Everything around me fades. All I can focus on is Kyle and Not-Me, looking so cozy together.

No, no, no. This isn’t happening. It can’t be.

My body moves before my brain can catch up. I’m storming across the festival square, my boots splashing through melting puddles with vengeful purpose. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, sensing the impending drama.

“Kyle!” I screech, my voice hitting a pitch I didn’t know was possible. “Care to explain why you’re two-timing me with that wannabe runway model over there?”

The woman beside Kyle raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Actually, I’m a Pilates instructor.”

Kyle’s eyes widen as he glances between me and his . . . whatever she is. “Isla! It’s not what it looks like! I . . . I was just helping her find a bracelet!”

A bracelet. Right. Because that totally explains the way his hand was glued to her waist.

“Oh, that makes it so much better!” I snap, throwing up my hands.

Behind me, I hear Asher mumble under his breath. Oh no. He’s been recording this. Theentirething.

My humiliation is now immortalized in 4K. Future Isla can relive this disaster any time she wants.

He pulls his hand away from the Pilates instructor. “Isla, please. Let’s talk about this somewhere private.”

“Private?” I laugh again, louder this time. “You mean like how you’ve been privately seeing Little Miss Downward Dog here?”

I take a step forward, intent on . . . well, I’m not sure what. Unleashing my inner warrior princess? But because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, my foot catches on a fallen banner. Seriously, who leaves decorations lying around in the middle of a public meltdown?

I careen forward, arms flailing like I’m auditioning for a human windmill impression. My entire life flashes before my eyes, mostly scenes of me tripping over air and into embarrassing situations. At least I’m consistent.

And then, because karma clearly thinks I haven’t suffered enough, I crash right into Miss Perfect Pilates herself. We collide in a tangle of limbs and startled yelps, and I find myself nose-to-nose with Kyle’s new flame.

Not exactly the dreamy proposal moment I’d imagined.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! Wait—no, I’m NOT sorry!” I splutter, trying to extricate myself without causing further bodily harm.

Kyle rushes to help her up, swooping in like some kind of knight in shining armor. Of course, Kyle would play hero to her while leaving me sprawled on the floor.

Asher appears at my side, offering his hand to pull me back to my feet.

The Pilates instructor, looking annoyingly poised even after our collision, chooses this moment to speak up. “He never loved you.” She tilts her head and offers me a saccharine smile.

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