Page 80 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Of course, Mr. Pembroke. Jen mentioned you wanted to discuss the upcoming matchmaking event?”

“Indeed, indeed.” I hear the familiar rustle of his bow tie being adjusted. “The committee has been following recent developments quite closely. Your . . . shall we say, personal success has caught everyone’s attention.”

I feel my cheeks warm. “Mr. Pembroke, I should explain—”

“No need, no need! The proof is in the pudding, as they say. The committee has full confidence in your abilities. We’ve decided that both you and Miss Mills will co-host the Frosthaven Annual Matchmaking Event. You can work together to determine better pricing and coordinate the event details. No updated pitch is needed. I apologize for doubting your abilities previously.”

I resist the urge to bang my head against the desk again. “Mr. Pembroke, about Asher and I—”

“Oh! Must dash—my cat’s gotten into the yarn basket again. We’ll be in touch with the details!”

The line goes dead before I can protest further.

“Isla? Sorry to interrupt, but Asher’s here.” Jan knocks on my door.

I nearly dropped the phone. “Who?”

The door swings open, and Asher steps inside. His hair is slightly damp, tousled in that lazy, just-ran-a-hand-through-it way. He’s wearing the blue shirt I got him for his last birthday. It clings just right across his chest, snug through the torso. The top button is undone, revealing just a hint of tanned skin.

He stops next to me, his lips curling into that grin, the one that shows off his dimple.

“Hey, Isla,” he says, leaning against the wall next to my desk, one hand slipping into his pocket. “Busy morning?”

How should I act now? Okay, do I go with Option A. Awkward-turtle my way through this conversation? Or Option B. Employ the world-class selective amnesia I’ve perfected after years of embarrassing myself at parties?

Oh no, he’s looking at me now with those perfect eyes. Quick, think of something intelligent to say.

“Morning! Yes, very morning. I mean busy. Very busy morning.” I shuffle papers randomly on my desk, accidentally knocking over my coffee cup. Empty, thank goodness. “Did you know your shirt is blue? I mean—weather! The weather is . . . also blue. Sky! The sky is blue!”

Asher raises an eyebrow, that look usually makes me throw a pencil at him. But throwing things seems too intimate right now. Is throwing intimate?

“The sky is blue,” he repeats slowly, fighting a smile. “Fascinating observation.”

“Yeah . . . um . . . You went running pretty early today, huh?”

Oh my goodness. I’m officially stalking him. I might as well admit I’ve been peering through my blinds at 5 AM, timing his morning jog.

The truth is, I woke up at dawn after a night of tossing and turning, and I happened to see him jogging past my window. But saying it like that makes me sound like I’ve been monitoring his exercise habits, which is definitely not what normal, well-adjusted friends do the morning after an almost-kiss.

“Yeah. Didn’t sleep well.” His smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, placing the bottle on my desk. “How about you?”

Why didn’t he sleep well? Was he up all night thinking about me? Or—more likely—was he up all night regretting ever saying anything to me? Maybe he was practicing ways to let me down gently. Sorry, Isla, I was temporarily insane yesterday. Must’ve been something I ate.

“Um . . . I slept ok, had some weird dreams . . . and . . .” And woke up in a cold sweat because I dreamed we were married. With two kids and another puppy. We named it Muffin. Mochi and Muffin. Sounds great.

He folds his arms across his chest, the movement pulling his shirt snugly over his biceps.

Do not say it. Do not look at his biceps. Do not say it.

“Yeah, uh . . . just weird. Totally normal, weird. Not like, weird-weird.”

“I made you some tea. Lavender chamomile. Thought you might like it.” He pushes the bottle toward me.

“Oh. Thanks.” I take the bottle and examine it like it’s the most fascinating object I’ve ever encountered. “Uh . . . by any chance, did you . . . hear anything weird? Like, never mind—it’s probably just part of my dream or . . . um . . . something about the rumors?”

My mouth is definitely the enemy. I need to dig a hole and live in it forever. Maybe build a tiny underground home where I never have to make eye contact again.

“About our passionate declaration of eternal love in the moonlight?” The corners of his mouth twitch as if he’s fighting back a grin. “Or about how I supposedly serenaded you with a mariachi band?”

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