Page 64 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

I turn to see Connie and Fred providing enthusiastic commentary like they’re at a hockey game. And Mrs. Henderson’s knitting circle is taking bets on which dessert will hit the floor first.

The elderly pianist starts playing dramatic music, adding a surreal soundtrack to the mayhem. It’s like being in the world’s most ridiculous disaster movie.

“I’m helping!” Betty’s voice rings out, followed by the sound of shattering glass.

The doors burst open. In rushes Frosthaven’s volunteer fire department and heads straight for the flambé cart.

As the room fills with the scent of singed sugar and hairspray, I turn and catch Asher’s eye. Even in the middle of all this chaos, we burst into laughter.

This might be the most chaotic date I’ve ever had. Or the worst. Hard to say. But somehow, with Asher next to me, it doesn’t feel all that bad.

Chapter 17

Asher

Theeveninghasn’texactlygone as planned.

I didn’t count on the flambé disaster, but I did get a little help from Conner, as well as Elaine and Roxanne. So we can have the date at the same time, same place.

The volunteer fire department is checking the scene while Eric and Samantha haven’t stopped talking about corporate liability. They’re huddled together, completely oblivious to the chaos around them, their heads bent over Samantha’s phone as they exchange phone numbers.

“Wait, you live in the Oakwood complex downtown?” Samantha asks Eric, her voice rising in pitch.

Eric’s eyes widen. “No way! I’m in 3B!”

“I’m in 4A!” Samantha squeals. “We’re neighbors!”

I exchange a bemused glance with Isla. She flashes me a smile, and this time, she actually holds it for a beat before looking away. Maybe the dessert chaos knocked something loose in that weird tension between us.

“Oh, dearie!” Betty appears out of nowhere, grabbing my arm with surprising strength for someone who claims she needs help opening pickle jars. Our beloved neighbor and my gym member beams up at me, her flowered hat tilting precariously.

She’s been our building’s most enthusiastic matchmaker since the day I convinced her to offer Isla that “first-time renter special.” A discount that Isla still doesn’t realize I had a hand in.

“Such quick reflexes! And the way you caught our Isla—” She clutches her chest, vibrating with excitement.

Before I can get a word in, she’s already turning to announce to the nearest table. “Did you see those flames? It looked like someone lit the oven with a firework. And then our Asher,” she winks at me, “swooping in to save his girl like it was the finale of a romance movie.”

Isla’s cheeks turn that soft shade of pink I know better than the squeak in my gym’s front door. She gets that look when she’s trying to play it cool. My body goes on high alert, remembering exactly how she felt pressed against me, her fingers wrapped around my arm. The way she fits against me is impossible to forget—soft, warm, and way too easy to get addicted to.

“I always said you two—”

“Betty!” Isla yelps.

I move closer to help Isla with an overturned serving tray. Her eyes flick to my forearms, then dart away. She probably thinks I don’t notice. But after everything tonight, the looks, the blushes, the way she held onto me, I’m almost certain I’m not the only one who’s attracted to their best friend.

Eric and Samantha finally seem to notice the cleanup happening around them. They approach us, their faces glowing with that unmistakable just-found-my-soulmate look. You’d think they just discovered a tax loophole together instead of surviving a dessert disaster.

“Oh, thank you both,” Samantha says absently, barely glancing at the mop in my hand. “This is the best date I’ve ever had.”

She seems to forget who’s supposed to be her date. Not that I’m complaining.

Eric nods. “Indeed. I haven’t connected with someone like this since my dissertation defense on corporate risk assessment methodologies.”

We walk them to their car, watching as Eric and Samantha continue their discussion.

“Oh no,” Isla mutters, watching her ride disappear. “I forgot Eric drove me here.”

“Come on, Peachie. Your chariot awaits,” I grin, dangling my keys. I make a mental note to send Eric a fruit basket or maybe even a full spreadsheet listing my eternal gratitude.

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