Page 71 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Don’t you ever wonder?”

“It wouldn’t be professional. You’re my client!”

“I’m also your best friend.” His eyebrow arches, that dimple flashing. “And what if one day you have a client who’s in love with their best friend? Wouldn’t it be useful research?”

I swallow hard.

“Just as an experiment.”His voice drops lower, rich and smooth, the kind that could talk someone intoanything.

He stretches and casually drapes his arm along the back of the couch. The warmth of his forearm hovers just behind my shoulders, too close, too much.

I sit up so straight that I might as well be in military training. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

Asher leans in, his breath warm against my cheek, the space between us shrinking by the second. “What are you afraid of finding out?”

Everything.

My pulse pounds, loud and frantic. Is he just playing with me? Or does he actually mean this? Is his curiosity the same kind as mine?

“Fine.” I push off the couch, twisting away from the heat of his arm stretched behind me. My shoulder barely brushes his chest as I grab Mochi, pulling him to my chest like a furry shield. A soft, squirming barrier between me and temptation.

“Let me get my laptop.”

“I’ll wait.”

I rush to my apartment, fumbling with the lock and entering the wrong password twice before finally managing to open the door. Living so close to Asher has always been convenient. Until now.

Back in Asher’s apartment, I settle onto his couch. He hasn’t moved. His arm is still stretched along the back of the couch. I have nowhere to go but to sit in my original spot and straighten my back like I’ve just been called on in class.

His brows lift slightly, lips twitching before curving into that teasing smile. When did he start smiling like that? Did he pick it up from Conner, or is this just another dangerous new skill I now have to deal with?

I type in our names, pulling up the profiles already saved in the system.

One of his answers pops up on the side, and I pause.

Weird. Just weird.

Describe your ideal partner: Can cook but usually forgets the timer. Makes up words when real ones don’t work. Wears socks that don’t match.

Who even puts that? Most people put stuff like being emotionally mature or a good communicator. But no. He refused to give a normal answer. Said thatwasnormal. Really odd.

My fingers hover over the keys. All it takes is one click to run the match with the system.

“Ready?” Asher’s voice is low beside me.

No. Absolutely not.

“Sure.” I hit enter before I could change my mind.

The little loading bar taunts me, inching along at a glacial pace. My palms are damp against the keyboard. Is it hot in here? Maybe I should open a window. Or jump out of one.

The screen flashes. My heart slams to a stop.

100% Compatibility.

“That—” My voice breaks in half like my sanity. “That can’t be right.”

Heat explodes up my neck as I fumble for the mouse, my hands suddenly operating at the fine motor skill level of an over-caffeinated squirrel. Didn’t I already change it back correctly? I’m sure this is my original algorithm, the one with a much higher success rate than the recent one.

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