Page 33 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

A woman strides in, all coordinated athleisure and runway-level confidence, as if she’s auditioning for the cover of Peak Cardio Monthly. She pauses in the doorway, one hand on her hip, chin lifted, eyes sweeping the restaurant with slow, practiced precision. I’m almost convinced she’s expecting paparazzi or a protein sponsorship. If a wind machine kicked on right now, I wouldn’t even be surprised.

Must be Michelle, my date. According to the photo Isla showed me.

She’s pretty, polished, and put together. The kind of woman who probably organizes her leggings by designer labels, color, and moisture-wicking level. According to Isla, she’s someone who checks every box. Harvard grad. Marathoner. Fitness influencer with over 200k followers.

That’s what IslathinksI want.

“Asher?” Michelle steps in, gearing up for a hug, then swerves at the last second and lands a weirdly intense pat on my shoulder.

“Oh my goodness, you’re even hotter in person!”

Maeve’s eyebrows lift so high they nearly vanish into her bangs. She mutters something that might beYou’re on your own, kid,and retreats toward the kitchen without looking back.

“Those gym promos seriously undersold you. I mean, look at those shoulders!” She does a double take, blinking twice.

What kind of pictures of me has Isla been showing around?

Must be that photo from the gym’s promotional shoot last summer—the one where Connie made me flex with dumbbells shaped like watermelons. I resist the urge to hide my arms. Sure, I stay in shape, comes with the job, but I’m not exactly built like a tank.

“Nice to meet you, Michelle.” I pass a polite smile.

She slides into her seat and leans in, giving my arms the kind of look you usually reserve for auctioning prize cattle.

“Seriously, do you live at the gym or what? I bet you could bench-press a car. Or a small horse. Maybe even two if they’re Shetland ponies.”

Before I can answer, she reaches over and pokes my arm through the sleeve like she’s testing a melon at the farmer’s market. “Is that real muscle?”

I shift in my chair, trying not to flinch. Is this a thing now? First dates doubling as physical evaluations? “Well, I do work at a gym.”

Michelle’s laugh echoes through the restaurant. Several heads turn. “Right! Isla mentioned that. Speaking of working out . . .” She pushes aside her menu without even glancing at it. “What do you say we skip dinner and go for a jog instead?”

“I’m sorry?”

“A jog!” She taps out a caffeinated drum solo on the table. “It’s my ultimate compatibility test. I’ve got to see if you can keep up!”

“I appreciate the offer,” I say carefully, “but with the slick streets from yesterday’s rain . . . and the fact that we have a reservation.”

This is where normal humans usually eat food and have conversations. My stomach rumbles in protest, fully on board with Team Dinner.

Fred catches my eye across the room, giving me an exaggerated wink and thumbs up. Connie’s practically bouncing in her seat, no doubt already planning how to spread this gossip through their early-morning gym session tomorrow.

“Oh, come on! Don’t worry about the reservation. Don’t you want to see if we’re a fitness match? With a body like that, you’ve got to be itching to show off your cardio skills. Unless . . .” She leans forward, eyebrows raised challengingly, “You’re worried you can’t keep up with a girl?”

Her voice bounces off every wall in the place. More heads turn. Fred nearly chokes on his breadstick. Connie looks like she’s about to start a slow clap.

There’s no graceful way out of this.

“Sure,” I mustered a smile. “Why not?”

I mouth a quicksorryto the waiter and gesture toward the untouched menus. Michelle breezes right past him like he’s invisible, launching into a breathless rundown of her heart rate zones and how she color-codes her running routes in a planner she callsThe Book of Sweat. She lets out a loud laugh at her own joke and nearly clips a chair on her way out without missing a beat.

I’d rather be sharing a burger with Isla, listening to her passionately defend her theory that couples who argue over dog names in the first week are statistically more likely to stay together.

At least Isla would’ve noticed the waiter. And asked if I even wanted to run in the first place.

We step out of the restaurant into the cool, damp spring air. Michelle bounces on her toes beside me, her enthusiasm completely at odds with the wet sidewalks and steady drizzle.

“Ready to burn some calories?” She grins, stretching her arms over her head.

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