Page 60 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Right,” I say. “But I meant more like . . . have you tried cinnamon rolls at Fresh n’ Fluffy? They’re to die for.”

“I haven’t had the opportunity to sample the local cuisine,” Eric replies, adjusting his already perfect tie. “My nutritionist has me on a strict meal plan to optimize my macronutrients.”

That tracks.

I take another sip of water, wishing it was Asher’s lavender-chamomile tea. At least then, I’d have something comforting while my date recites the town’s financial report like it’s bedtime reading. Maybe I should’ve asked Diane if her algorithm accounts for the ability to discuss something other than economic indicators.

“So, what do you do for fun?”

“I enjoy activities that promote personal growth and career advancement,” he says. “Last weekend, I attended a seminar on blockchain technology and its applications in supply chain management.”

Sounds wildly productive. I should probably feel inspired.

“Cool,” I say, plastering on a smile. “I’m more of a binge-watch rom-coms in my pajamas kind of gal myself.”

Eric’s brow furrows. “I find such activities to be an inefficient use of time.”

I resist the urge to bang my head on the table. It sounds similar to what Kyle said before, except Kyle would’ve thrown in a lecture about how low-effort media was a sign of intellectual decay.

“Tell me about your matchmaking business.” Eric pulls out his phone, probably to take notes. “What’s your projected growth rate for the next fiscal quarter?”

“Um, I focus more on creating meaningful connections than quarterly projections.”

“But how do you measure your ROI? Your market penetration metrics?”

“I measure success in happy couples and wedding invitations,” I say, trying not to sound defensive.

“Interesting approach.” He types something into his phone. “Have you considered relocating to a major metropolitan area? The dating market in New York shows a 47% higher profit margin. Small-town operations typically demonstrate suboptimal scalability.”

“I prefer quality over quantity. Besides, I like knowing my clients personally.”

“Ah.” He nods sagely. “That’s why your business model is inefficient. Personal involvement creates emotional variables that compromise systematic optimization.”

I blink. Are we having a business consultation or a date?

The forks on our table have become fascinating specimens as Eric launches into his step count optimization manifesto. Come on, brain. Pay attention. He must know something I don’t know about running a business.

Maybe Diane’s algorithm has a glitch. Or maybe I’m just that unmatchable.

I could fake food poisoning. A sudden stomach cramp. Anything to escape Eric’s lecture. But before I can clutch my stomach in theatrical agony, the restaurant door opens, and my thoughts scatter like napkins in a windstorm.

Asher.

What is he doing here?

He looks unfairly handsome in a dark blue button-down, the kind that makes his turquoise eyes smolder like a summer thunderstorm. His long legs eat up the room in dark fitted pants, stretching him into some kind of tall, smirking fever dream.

And on his arm is a stunning redhead who looks a lot like Samantha.

Wait. SheisSamantha.

She’s everything I’m not—tall, graceful, with that kind of effortless beauty that belongs in magazines. Her red hair falls in perfect waves, not a strand out of place, unlike my eternally rebellious curls. She practically glows with the kind of confidence that comes from being a corporate lawyer specializing in mergers and acquisitions. The kind of woman who walks into a room, and everyone just knows she has it all together.

The kind of woman who would make perfect sense for Asher.

My stomach twists. I should be happy about this. This is exactly what I wanted. Find him his perfect match.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

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