Page 46 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

That moment at the gym keeps looping in my head like it’s stuck on repeat, especially the part where all those old crush feelings came rushing back in full force. And the part where he, ever so kindly, reminded me we’re nothing more than friends.

But it’s fine. I’ve done this before. I’ll just keep a little distance until the helpless, heart-thumpy part of me settles down again.

Clearly, it was just some kind of romantic brain fever. A temporary glitch. Probably triggered by the way he cared for me. But I should know better. Asher’s always been like this. Kind. Thoughtful. This is just him looking out for me the way any best friend would.

Romantic relationships fade. Friendships last. And I won’t risk losing what we have just because my heart’s suddenly greedy, aching for the kind of forever that belongs in someone else’s story.

Some people get epic love stories. I get an epic friendship.

And that should be enough.

I shift in my seat and force my attention back to the front. The Frosthaven Community Center’s conference room is packed. The mayor. Diane. Half the Events Committee. Everyone who matters when it comes to town decisions.

“We believe it’s time for a change.”

Walter Pembroke announces, adjusting his navy-and-silver striped bow tie, his traditional “difficult decisions” tie that the whole town knows signals trouble brewing. As head of Frosthaven’s Events Committee for the past thirty years, he takes his role with utmost seriousness, even if his collection of whimsical bow ties suggests otherwise.

“Diane’s approach seems better suited for our current times,” he continues, glancing at the framed photos of past Matchmaker’s Galas lining the community center’s walls. “The committee has decided to let her host this year’s Frosthaven Annual Matchmaker’s Gala. And per her recommendation, we’ll be tripling the ticket price.”

Tripling.

What? Does he even hear himself?

I grip the edge of my chair, willing my hands not to shake as I face the matchmaking committee. The same committee that watched me grow up, that came to every one of my matches’ weddings, that helped me decorate for my very first gala five years ago.

My heart plummets. The Matchmaker’s Gala isn’t just another event, it’s woven into the fabric of our town. It’s where countless couples have found their perfect match, where even grumpy old Mr. Peterson found love last year at seventy-eight.

I’ve spent months planning this year’s event. And when they hinted that they might bring in Diane instead, I stayed quiet.

If her approach is really better, fine. I can handle that. But not if she’s turning matchmaking into some money-grab algorithm factory.

Diane, my polished rival, smooths her designer blazer and smiles with perfectly straight teeth. Her sleek presentation deck glows on her tablet, a stark contrast to my well-worn matchmaking notebook filled with hand-written notes about everyone’s favorite coffee orders and their grandmothers’ secret recipes.

“Our modern, foolproof-based approach has a proven track record of successful matches across three major cities. It attracts serious clients, boosts local visibility, and, frankly, brings in real money. This gala could become a destination event. Maybe even breathe new life into a town.” Diane says.

I force myself to take a deep breath. “This gala isn’t supposed to be a luxury event. It’s for the people. You can’t just triple the ticket price.”

“Traditionally, the matchmaker hosting the gala sets the pricing.” Walter Pembroke glances at Diane, then adds, “Tripling the ticket price’s not our usual approach, I admit. But with Diane’s track record and the promise of more visibility for the town, we’re trying something new.”

“I’ve helped build happy relationships right here in Frosthaven. Without charging people like that.” I say.

“I hate to bring this up,” Diane swipes to another slide. “But your recent personal situation doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in your matchmaking abilities. And from what I hear . . . the match you arranged for your best friend was not exactly a success.”

My stomach drops. Thanks to Kyle’s “Frosthaven Business Insider” blog post going up right after the date, people already know about it. Why does he seem to hate me so much that he wants to destroy my business?

I feel the committee’s eyes on me, see the sideways glances and hesitant nods. My cheeks burn.

Mr. Johnson, the oldest committee member who still insists on bringing my favorite peppermint candies to every meeting, clears his throat. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. Perhaps we should give Isla a chance to present her ideas before making a final decision. After all, she did help my grandson find his wife. They’re expecting twins this spring.”

I could kiss Mr. Johnson’s wrinkled cheek. “Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound too eager. “I’d be happy to put together a presentation outlining my updated approach.”

Walter Pembroke adjusts his bow tie again. It’s slightly crooked, which everyone knows means he’s wavering. “Very well. We’ll reconvene in two weeks to hear your pitch.”

As the meeting adjourns, I gather my things, trying to ignore the weight of defeat pressing down on my shoulders. As I turn to leave, Diane’s perfectly manicured hand lands on my arm. I suppress a shudder.

“Isla, dear, can we chat for a moment?” Her voice drips with fake sweetness.

I plaster on my best attempt at a smile. “Of course, Diane.”

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