Page 47 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

We step into the hallway, away from the prying eyes of the committee. Diane’s smile doesn’t fade, but her eyes are sharp and searching.

“I couldn’t help but notice how passionate you are about your town and your business,” she says, her voice low and conspiratorial. “It’s charming, really. But passion doesn’t scale, dear. Have you ever considered what your business could become with my methods? We could even discuss a potential partnership.”

“Partnership?”

“Think about it. Your local expertise, my proven system. We could dominate the entire region’s matchmaking market.”

My stomach churns at how she makes love sound like a commodity to be bought and sold.

“I appreciate the thought, but—”

“Tell you what,” Diane leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Why don’t you try my method yourself? Just once. Consider it as research. No charge. Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“I don’t think I need it.”

“Come on, Isla. What do you have to lose? In fact, let me set you up on a date. My algorithm can find your perfect match. Someone completely different from your usual type. Someone who could help you move forward.”

“That’s generous of you,” I manage, my throat tight. “But I’m not really looking to date right now.”

“All the more reason to give it a try. No pressure—just a chance to see how it works. Who knows?” She smiles, all teeth and ambition. “You might learn something valuable. About my methods . . . and yourself.”

“You do realize we’re competing to host the Gala, right?”

“Of course I do.” She waves a hand. “But I’m thinking long-term. Like a partnership with the local matchmaker.”

I’m backed into a corner, and we both know it. Refusing makes me look scared and stubborn. Accepting feels like a betrayal of everything I believe in. But maybe that’s exactly what I need to figure out what I’m doing wrong.

Plus, it might help me get over this thing with Asher.

Especially now that I have to put together a whole new pitch for the committee. I need to stay focused. Not on the way Asher keeps making me feel like I’m the most important person in the world, but on finding the perfect match for him.

“I’ll . . . give it a shot.”

Diane beams, patting my arm. “Wonderful! I’ll send you the details. Trust me, Isla, this is the future of matchmaking. Don’t get left behind clinging to the past.”

With a final, predatory smile, she saunters off, leaving me feeling like I’ve just made a deal with the devil.

I pull into the driveway of Mom’s house. The one I grew up in, right next door to Asher’s parents. I lived here until three years ago, when Mom married Victor, and I finally moved out. Before I can even kill the engine, I spot Conner’s silhouette through the kitchen window.

Of course, he’s already raiding the fridge. Some things never change.

Bracing myself for the inevitable twin tornado, I grab my bag and head inside. The moment I step through the door, the smell of Mom’s famous lasagna hits me like a warm hug.

“Hey, thief!” I call out, dropping my keys on the entry table. “Save some for the rest of us!”

Conner’s head pops up from behind the refrigerator door, his mouth already full. “You snooze, you lose, sis. Should’ve gotten here sooner.” His auburn hair is a bit darker than mine, and it’s always artfully tousled. The kind of mess that takes actual effort to achieve. And his jawline could rival Asher’s.

We shared a womb for nine months, but he emerged looking like a Ralph Lauren model while I got Mom’s cute-but-chaotic vibe. He’s got the same hazel eyes as me, but lighter, and somehow, they make him look like he just stepped out of a magazine. It’s completely unfair that we’re supposed to be twins, but he somehow has all the good genes.

If I’d gotten the same perfect genes Conner lucked into instead of this grab bag of awkwardness, maybe my dating life wouldn’t be such a disaster.

“Some of us have actual jobs,” I mutter, watching him flash that camera-ready smile that’s gotten him out of trouble since kindergarten. The same smile that makes girls swoon and old ladies slip him extra cookies.

I spent half of middle school being his unwilling messenger, with girls constantly slipping me love notes to give to him. Ruby Reyes from Chemistry class once made me deliver an entire poem comparing his eyes to molten amber to a sunset. I still have nightmares about that one.

“Professional beach bums?” Conner finishes, grinning as he takes another bite.

“I was going to say eternally unemployed, but sure, let’s go with your version.”

---