Page 63 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

It looks even better than the romance novel I’m reading. Chapter 12. I know exactly where that scene is. Wait—is he doing this on purpose? Hedidsay he read that book. I narrow my eyes at him, but he just lifts his glass, throat working as he swallows, forearms on full display like he’s auditioning for the cover of “Burning For You.”

My fork slips from my fingers, clattering to the table.

“You okay there, Isla?” Asher asks, his voice low and amused.

I nod and focus very hard on the salt shaker. Anywhere but his eyes.

Why is it always so hardnotto feel something for Asher? He’s already made it clear. We’re just friends.

“You’re amazing. You’ll find someone who sees that.”

How he wouldn’t meet my eyes, how his jaw clenched like the words cost him something.

My confused heart is making everything harder than it needs to be. Why does it have to be like this? If love is just going to wilt every time it gets close, why does it have to drag my friendship down with it?

“Oh, dearies! You simply must try the Cherries Jubilee flambé. It’s to die for!”

I whip my head around to see Betty, our beloved neighbor, waving enthusiastically from a nearby table.

“That does sound intriguing,” Eric perks up. “The combination of cherries and alcohol creates a fascinating chemical reaction during the flambé process.”

A waiter appears with an elaborate dessert cart. It’s like a miniature Mardi Gras float, complete with dramatic lighting that makes the crystal bowls sparkle.

“Ooh, make the flames extra big!” Betty calls out, practically bouncing in her seat.

The waiter, bless his heart, looks torn between following Betty’s instructions and not burning down the restaurant.

“You know,” Connie’s voice rings out from across the room, “Fred once singed his eyebrows doing this at home. Smelled like a burnt caterpillar for weeks!”

Connie and Fred are here? I’ve been so caught up in my own awkward situation that I hadn’t even noticed who else was in the restaurant.

The waiter lights the brandy, and suddenly, it’s like the Fourth of July decided to make an early appearance. The flames shoot up, way higher than they should.

“Oh my!” Betty exclaims, gesturing wildly. Her hand catches the edge of the cart, and suddenly, it’s dessert Armageddon.

The Cherries Jubilee slides one way, the profiteroles another, and a trifle wobbles like it’s auditioning for a disaster movie. And is that . . . smoke coming from Mrs. Henderson’s wig?

“The insurance implications of this scenario are quite intriguing.” Eric’s completely unfazed by the chaos.

Samantha says evenly. “This would make an excellent case study for my risk management class.”

“Isla, duck!” Asher’s voice snaps me back to reality just as a wayward crêpe suzette sails over my head.

Without thinking, I grab a pitcher of water and toss it at the flames. Bad move. The fire roars higher, and I stumble back. In an instant, Asher’s out of his seat and behind me, one arm wrapping around my waist to steady me. His other arm reaches past me to grab the tablecloth, and oh my goodness—those forearms. His rolled-up sleeves have slipped even higher, and my hand somehow ends up gripping his bare forearm for balance.

The muscles flex under my fingers. His skin is fever-hot against mine, all rough-velvet texture and coiled strength. My fingers tingle where they meet the slight rasp of hair against his forearm. Somewhere in my brain, all coherent thought dissolves into a puddle of goo.

“Nice moves, Peachie,” he murmurs, his breath fanning hot against my ear. His chest is solid against my back, radiating heat that seeps straight through my clothes. Every nerve ending lights up where his arm brackets my waist.

Why does it feel so natural, so right, like his arms were made to hold me just like this?

Eric has abandoned his seat to move closer to Samantha, the clipboard materializing from nowhere as they huddle together.

“We should help,” I say to Asher, trying to sound steady while being hyper-aware of his arm still around me.

He nods, already moving to grab a tablecloth to smother the flames. I follow his lead, and soon we’re tag-teaming the dessert inferno.

“And it’s Ennis with the water, but Collymore makes the save!” Connie’s voice booms out. “What a play, folks!”

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