Page 40 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Heard you’re matching Asher?

Thought you liked him.

Should we talk about this?

ISLA

Yes, no, and NO.

“Thoughtyoumighttrysneaking past me again, Is.”

Asher’s standing by the front desk of Collymore Fitness, one arm resting casually on the counter, his black T-shirt fitting close over his chest and shoulders as if it was tailored for him. His hair is slightly messy, soft brown strands falling across his forehead, a little unruly and somehow even better for it.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” I mumble. “Just . . . surveying the perimeter.”

I give Asher a sheepish smile and walk past the front desk into the gym. Sunlight streams through the windows, catching on the equipment while upbeat music pulses in the background. The gym hasn’t changed dramatically since Asher officially took over. His father built something special already, but I notice all the little touches that make it unmistakably Asher’s now.

The water stations with fresh lemon slices are thoughtfully placed. The perfect temperature that’s never too cold or too hot. The industrial-strength power racks he installed himself. The expanded free weight section with dumbbells heavy enough to challenge the serious lifters.

These aren’t changes most people would notice, but they’re exactly the kind of thoughtful improvements only someone as dedicated and perceptive as Asher would implement.

I remember how hard he worked to honor his father’s legacy while adding these quiet improvements. He shouldered everything during his dad’s recovery without a single complaint, somehow making the place even more welcoming without erasing what made it special to begin with.

“Oh, honey!” Connie exclaims, patting my arm. She’s decked out in her signature matching tracksuit. Today it’s hot pink with rhinestones spelling out “FIERCE” across the back. “Are you here for a training session with Asher? Bless your heart.”

Fred nods sagely, adjusting his ever-present baseball cap that’s probably older than me. “Don’t let him push you too hard. My glutes are still sore from last week!” He winks at Connie. “Though the missus here isn’t complaining.”

“Fred Albright!” Connie swats his arm, but she’s beaming. These two have been married for forty-eight years and still flirt like teenagers. They’re basically Frosthaven’s resident romance novel lovers come to life.

“And speaking of pushing too hard,” Connie adds, “thank you for spending your lunch break teaching this old man about video calls yesterday.”

“It was nothing! We trade tech support for baked goods, right?” I wave off her thanks.

“Two hours she sat with me,” Fred announces to anyone within earshot. “Walking me through it step by step. Real patient. I kept calling the camera the picture box, and she didn’t even laugh. Missed her whole lunch and everything just to make sure I could talk to my grandson properly.”

Gavin grins. “Someone out there’s gonna be very lucky to end up with Isla.” He throws a quick glance at Asher. “Just saying.”

Asher’s posted up against the wall, long legs crossed at the ankle, every inch of him looking relaxed and ridiculously good at existing. A dimple dents his left cheek the second he smiles.

Do not poke it. Do not stare at it.

“Wow, okay.” I clear my throat, trying not to spontaneously combust. “Thanks, Fred, Connie, and Gavin.”

“That girl would skip lunch, sleep, and probably oxygen if it meant helping someone else.” Connie clucks her tongue fondly.

“Well, that’s about to change.” Asher pushes off the wall and strolls toward me. “I’ll take good care of our resident matchmaker.”

Connie winks at me. “I bet you will, dear.”

He stops way too close. Close enough that his cologne, warm and clean and attractive, wraps around my brain like a blanket.

“Connie’s watching us like we’re about to elope.” He leans in. “Think we should give her something to talk about?”

My heart lurches, unsure if it’s supposed to panic or melt. Did Asher have some kind of overnight personality switch? Ever since the shirtless bathtub incident yesterday, he hasn’t gone back to normal.Note to self: Google how to tell if your best friend is flirting with you or if your brain is just wildly desperate.

After a quick warm-up on the treadmill and some shoulder stretches that make me feel like a rusty tin man, Asher guides me toward the back corner of his gym.

The polished metal of the cable machine catches the soft glow of the overhead track lights. The adjustable pulleys look complicated enough to pilot a spaceship.

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