Page 65 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“That’ll be—” she pauses, like something just clicked in her brain. Her gaze shifts, landing anywhere but on me. “You don’t have to. I need to pick up Mochi from Mom’s.”

“What kind of friend would I be if I abandoned you after surviving the Great Flambé Disaster of 2025? Besides, pretty sure Betty’s already writing the Frosthaven Buzz headline:Local Gym Owner Leaves Damsel in Dessert Distress.Scandal rocks small town.”

That gets her. Her laugh bubbles out, bright and crisp, cutting through the awkward fog between us.

“I am not a damsel in distress.” She slides into the passenger seat.

Her cheeks are still flushed from the chaos, and there’s a smudge of chocolate on her jaw that she keeps missing. Without thinking, I reach over and wipe it away with my thumb.

She goes still, blinking up at me. Her fingers drift to the spot I touched, like she’s trying to feel if it was real.

“Well,” I say quickly, starting the engine before I do something stupid like lick the chocolate off my thumb or trace the rest of her face, “that was certainly a memorable evening.”

Isla sinks so low in her seat that she’s practically horizontal. “Can we pretend the last hour never happened? And why’d you change your plans with Samantha?”

“Because I want to—”

A low, male voice suddenly purrs through the car speakers,“The way you look at me like you want to devour me whole. It drives a man wild . . .”

We both pause. Isla scrambles upright and frowns. “What’s that?”

A female voice trembles,“My skin prickles under his gaze, heart racing as he draws closer. Those midnight eyes burn right through me, promising things that make my knees weak . . .”

I nearly swerve the car into a mailbox. Wait a minute.

Iknowthese lines.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I recognize the exact scene from Chapter 12 of “Burning For You.” The one I studied very carefully after Roxanne mentioned it was Isla’s favorite. The same one I may or may not have used as inspiration for how many buttons I left undone and exactly when to show off my forearms at dinner.

A breathy female voice continues,“He prowls closer, each step making my pulse jump. The way his muscles flex beneath his shirt with every movement, the dangerous gleam in his eyes as they rake over me.”

Isla’s head whips toward me. “Why are you listening to this?”

“I’m not.” I raise my hands in surrender. “This isn’t—”

The male voice returns, dropping an octave lower,“You’ve been driving me crazy all day, Naomi.”

Isla freezes, her eyes widening in horror as she realizes it is from her phone, which automatically connected to my Apple CarPlay, resuming her audiobook exactly where she left off. Usually, it’s her endless playlist of piano music filling my car.

“His forearms flex as he cages me against the wall.”

This is exactly what I’ve been fantasizing about doing to Isla all evening. The memory of her fingers gripping my forearm during the dessert chaos sends heat racing through my veins.

“No, no, no!” She dives for her purse with all the grace of a panicked penguin, somehow managing to launch half its contents across the car. Lipstick rolls under the seat, receipts flutter like confetti, and her phone is lost somewhere in the mess.

The female voice continues breathlessly,“Those perfectly sculpted forearms that have been teasing me all evening, making escape impossible . . .”

Just as Isla finally locates her phone, we hit a speed bump. The phone goes airborne, bouncing off the dashboard and landing somewhere. The audiobook’s volume mysteriously increases.

The low male voice now booms at full blast through the car speakers,“Just admit it . . . you like me.”The volume is loud enough to make the elderly couple walking their dog stop and stare through the window. The narrator’s voice fills the car, painting pictures of romantic moments that definitely aren’t meant for Mrs. Peterson and her poodle’s innocent ears.

It’s getting harder to remember why I shouldn’t just pull over and give Isla a live demonstration of how those moves should really be done.

I’m being a gentleman.

A very, very frustrated gentleman who’s seriously reconsidering his life choices right about now.

I grip the steering wheel harder, while Isla’s smacking random buttons on her phone. This is not the time to think about caging her against walls or lifting her chin with one finger.

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