Page 5 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

His mouth presses into a tight line, but his hand never leaves my back. His shoulders are rigid, tension coiled tight beneath his shirt.

I know that look. I’ve seen it before. Right before he punched Tommy Rodgers in fourth grade for calling meLittle Miss No-Dadin front of everyone. Asher doesn’t go looking for fights, but when he lands in one, no one forgets.

The whole town knows better than to cross the guy who can knock out reps—or a threat—without breaking a sweat.

I swallow hard and force a shaky breath. This doesn’t need to get worse. The last thing I want is Asher going after Kyle.

“I’m fine.” My fingers nudge the side of his shirt.

His breathing is that slow, controlled way that tells me he’s counting to ten in his head. His gaze flicks to Kyle like he’s weighing his options.

And I know—if Kyle so much as breathes wrong, Asher won’t be able to keep counting.

“If I ever see you near her again, we’re not talking.”

He turns without waiting for a reply, guiding me through the crowd. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“I’m such an idiot. I should have listened to you a long time ago,” I whisper, more to myself than to Asher.

His grip on my back tightens slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Isla. Don’t put yourself down for someone who never deserved you in the first place.”

I blink rapidly, the sting in my eyes making it harder to hold back the tears. How does he always seem to know exactly what I need to hear?

“Thanks.” I look down at the pavement, not sure what to do with the weight sitting on my chest. “You don’t have to do this.”

Asher’s eyes meet mine, and his brows knit ever so slightly, a shadow crossing his face. Before I can place it, it’s gone, replaced by his usual steady gaze.

“That’s whatfriendsare for.” He looks away.

Chapter 2

Asher

IshouldhavemadeIsla mine years ago.

Or at least told her how I feel.

This is exactly what I’m thinking as I let myself into Isla’s apartment with her passcode. She told me she was fine when we got back from the festival. But I’ve known her long enough to hear what she wasn’t saying.

She’s furiously scrubbing the vacuum back and forth over an already spotless patch of carpet, as if trying to vacuum order back into existence.

She lets her coat hang off one shoulder as if she couldn’t be bothered to take it off properly. Her hair’s a mess, strands falling out of what started as a bun and now looks more like a hair nest held together by stubbornness and sheer will.

Gone is the Isla who can light up a room with a single smile, who once brought a town hall meeting to tears with her inspirational story about rescuing a box turtle. In her place is someone unraveling, piece by piece, and it twists something deep inside my chest.

My fists are clenched so tight my knuckles ache. I’d take her pain if I could, absorbing every ounce of hurt she’s feeling. Just hand it over. I’ll carry the whole thing. But that’s not how this works.

And yeah. That sucks.

She finally kills the vacuum, but still hasn’t noticed me. Instead of stopping, she pivots straight to the bookshelf like she’s on a mission, stretching up on her toes to rearrange books that were perfectly fine. A stack near the top wobbles, threatening to topple.

I cut across the room in three fast strides. One hand closes around her shoulder, the other shooting out to catch the toppling books just before they spill.

“Peachie. Stop.”

Her shoulder is warm beneath my hand, her breath rising fast under the soft fabric. My grip tightens, just slightly, before I force it to ease. It would take nothing to close the distance. Just one small pull. She’d be right against me.

I should have told her years ago. That it’s always been her. That she’s been loved.

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