Page 83 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Before we even think about . . . about going along with this,” she finally blurts out, “we need to agree on one thing.”

“What is that one thing?”

“We can’t cross the line.”

“What kind of line?” I move closer. Her breath catches as I invade her space.

She stumbles past me on her way back to her seat, knocking into her desk. Papers scatter across the floor.

“You know exactly what it means. No . . . no real feelings.” She drops to gather the mess, keeping her focus anywhere but on me. “This stays strictly in the realm of performance. So our friendship can survive this.”

I crouch beside her, picking up a few pages. There’s a line she won’t cross, a space she won’t let me into, and feeling it now makes my chest tighten. Getting close to her has never been harder.

“Our friendship comes first,” she says quickly, stepping back and smoothing her skirt. “Let’s not make the same mistakes as yesterday.”

But she doesn’t say what yesterday meant to her. And maybe that’s her point. If she pretends nothing happened, she can pretend there’s nothing between us. That we can just let it pass.

But I know what I saw in her eyes.

And she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does.

“Okay.” I set the scattered papers on her desk. The word feels like swallowing broken glass, sharp and bitter.

Her shoulders tense, and she busies herself rearranging papers that don’t need rearranging.

“Do we need some specific rules?” I perch on the edge of her desk. “You’re the expert, after all.”

“Right. Yes. Rules.” She grabs her pen and notebook, the one with all the little hearts she doodles during our movie nights. “According to my research—”

“Research? Have you been studying how to fake-date?” I can’t help grinning, knowing thatherresearch is really just her ever-growing stash of romance novels.

Her cheeks flush that soft pink. The one she always gets when she’s deep into one of her favorite books. I could name every shade of blush she’s ever had and tell you exactly what’s running through her mind.

“I have extensive research experience!” she huffs, but the color deepens. No way am I ever getting tired of that.

“Ah, yes, your professional studies. Though if I remember correctly—” I bite back a grin. “—don’t all those fake relationships end with the couple falling madly in love?”

The flush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath her collar. My fingers itch to trace that blush, to discover just how far it goes. She clutches her notebook tighter, like a shield between us.

“That’s—that’s completely different.” She stammers, pulling back slightly in her chair. “Those are fiction. This is real life.”

“Is it?” I step closer, drawn by the way she catches her bottom lip.

She swats my arm. “Rule number one: no unnecessary touching.”

A strand of hair falls across her face as she scribbles in her notebook. I tuck it behind her ear.

“How about this?” My fingers linger against her cheek.

Her breath hitches. “That! That right there is exactly what we’re not doing!”

“But how will anyone believe we’re dating if I can’t touch you?” My hand stays where it is, thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. The softness of her skin is addictive.

Her eyes follow my finger, my arm, and meet my gaze, her body not moving an inch.

“A real boyfriend would do this all the time.” I keep my touch light.

“We—we just agreed to be just friends.” She remains still. “This isn’t . . . we can’t . . .”

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