Page 62 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Actually, I just finished a case study on how probability modeling can improve decision-making in corporate mergers,” Samantha says, her whole face brightening.

Eric perks up. “Did you use algorithmic forecasting? I’ve been working on a risk assessment framework that uses predictive variables to flag volatility in M&A deals.”

“Exactly!” Samantha leans in, visibly excited. “Have you tried incorporating game theory, like Nash equilibrium, to anticipate competitor behavior during merger negotiations?”

I blink. Did I just stumble into a parallel universe where merger statistics and market analysis count as flirting? They’re speaking a language that might as well be Klingon, but the way they’re beaming at each other . . . huh.

I think I just watched a match click into place.

I’m thrilled that Eric and Samantha are hitting it off so well. But maybe I shouldn’t be, considering I’m failing at my own date and failing at finding Asher a matchagain. Which doesn’t exactly help my case when I still need to pitch to the event committee.

But the part that actually stings a little is watching two people click so easily and feeling like I’m the kind of person no one ever picks. I should be used to that by now. Ten failed relationships and a lifetime of silence from a father who walked out. I should’ve figured it out already.

I’m just not the kind of person people stay for.

Asher leans back in his chair. His fingers drift to that second button on his shirt, working it free slowly. The crisp blue fabric parts, revealing a strip of tanned skin that steals the air from my lungs.

Eyes. Close. Now.

When did his skin get so golden? That hint of tan peeks through his collar, down to where his shirt parts. The strong line of his throat is begging to be touched, the dip of his collarbone is like an invitation I shouldn’t want to accept. Heat crawls up my neck.

Look away. Lookanywhereelse. Professional matchmakers do not ogle their clients. Or their best friends. Especially not with his date right here. Bad, inappropriate brain.

“The quarterly projections for tech startup mergers are fascinating,” Eric’s voice drifts through my consciousness like background noise.

Asher’s eyes catch mine, a slow smile spreading across his face like sin itself. Those turquoise eyes have gone midnight dark, holding mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“Don’t you agree, Isla?” Samantha’s question floats somewhere in the distance.

I jerk my leg, knocking my knee against the table. The water glasses rattle, and everyone turns to look at me.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Leg cramp.”

Asher raises an eyebrow at me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Hecan’tknow where my thoughts are heading. I narrow my eyes at him, silently willing him to behave.

“Are you alright, Isla?” Samantha asks.

“Totally fine. Just a bit worn out today. No worries.”

“What do you think about diversifying investment portfolios in this economic climate?” Eric asks Samantha.

Asher unbuttons his cuff, fingers moving with precision. Then he rolls up his sleeves slowly, revealing tanned, muscular forearms. Each fold reveals another inch of sun-kissed skin.

One fold.

Two fold.

Three fold.

The sleeve strains around his elbow. My throat closes up as those powerful forearms come into view. Corded muscle rippling beneath warm skin, veins tracing paths I want to follow with my fingertips.

Can he lift someone with one arm? Probably. Well, half the town voted him Frosthaven’s Best Forearms.

Can I touch it? Absolutely not. I’m supposed to be working on not falling for him harder.

That tiny scar near his wrist catches the light. It was from fourth grade. When Tommy Rogers laughed at me for not having a dad. And Asher—well. Let’s just say he earned it.

He stretches his arms, pulling his dress shirt snugly across his chest. Then his hand drifts up, sweeping through his hair in that casual, devastating way he does when he’s half-listening and entirely too relaxed.

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