Page 37 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

My heart melts.

Then it melts a little more.

I’ve always wanted a dog. I even wrote an essay titled “I Want a Puppy” when I was in sixth grade. But Mom never let us have pets after Dad left. She said she couldn’t handle any more responsibilities. Even after I moved out, I still didn’t get one. I told myself I was too busy, too unstable.

“Okay, water’s ready. Let’s do this.”

I step closer to the tub, and—oh. Mistake. Big mistake. Asher moves beside me, his arm brushing mine as we both try to lower the squirming puppy into the water.

He smells like pine and something uniquelyAsherthat should be bottled and labeledDangerous for Matchmakers. I’m sure it would sell out in the first five minutes, and I would absolutelynotbe responsible for half the purchases.

Bubbles start to form as we lather him up, turning his muddy fur into a foamy mess of pure chaos. The puppy, apparently deciding this is the perfect moment for chaos, goes full sprinkler system. Water and bubbles explode everywhere. Tiny soap suds fly through the air like confetti at a very wet, very unexpected party.

In ten seconds flat, we’re both soaked, standing face to face as water rains down around us.

“Gah!” I sputter, wiping my face. “I think we’re the ones getting the bath here!”

Asher’s laugh is deeper today. His gray Henley is now completely soaked, clinging to every ridge and plane of his chest. I glance at him, then down at myself. “You know, I was gonna sayIlook ridiculous, but you might have me beat.”

His brows lift. “Oh really?”

He reaches behind his neck, grabs the hem of his shirt, and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. The wet fabric hits the counter with a splat that feels unnecessarily dramatic.

“Better?”

His bare chest is in full close-up view. Defined lines, water slicked ridges, even sharper than last time because now we’re only inches apart. Maybe six. If last week was 4K, this is whatever comes after that. 8K. Premium subscription tier. Heart palpitations included.

“Was that necessary? Ash!” I turn my head and lock my eyes on the towel rack. I cannot be mentally stable about his bare chest in his bathroom. With a puppy. This is too much.

“It’s not your first time seeing it,” he says with a shrug. “I distinctly remember you walking in on me changing in fifth grade and screaming like I’d committed a felony. Oh, and last week. You saw it then, too.”

“That was different. You were bony and had a Naruto band-aid on your ribcage. And last week was accidental.”

“Oh wait . . . are you blushing? What’s going on in that matchmaker brain of yours?”

He taps my cheek with the back of his fingers, nudging my face toward him. “Yup. Confirmed. Blushing.”

I swat his hand away, my face burning. “I’m not blushing. It’s the steam.”

“So much steam.”

“You’re impossible.”

His mouth curves. The man has the audacity to trail one wet finger down the side of my neck. Slowly. Unhurried. My breath snags in my throat, and goosebumps bloom in his wake, rising everywhere he touches. He finally stops when he reaches my collarbone.

“Now I’m curious. Is it just your cheeks, or are you blushing all over?”

“Asher Collymore.” I shiver. “Are youflirtingwith me?”

“What doyouthink?”

What even is this energy right now? Is he bored after his date? Rebounding? Practicing for someone else? Can someone please return the normal Asher and rescue me from this emotionally confusing, shirtless flirtation danger zone?

I grab his wrist and push his hand away. “I think you shouldn’t practice your flirting skills on me.”

He chuckles, stretching his arm overhead with a lazy roll of his shoulder.

I glue my eyes to the puppy, pretending to bedeeplyinvested in lathering his tiny, squirmy back. Bubbles. Focus on the bubbles.

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