Page 84 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Can’t what?” I pull my hand back.

Her fingers lift to the spot I just touched. “Uh . . . I guess minimal touching is required. Minimal.” She clears her throat. “But only when people are watching.”

“Next rule?”

“Appropriate physical distance.”

“Define appropriate.” My fingers wrap around her wrist as I pull her up from the chair. I ease her closer, just enough that the heat between us becomes impossible to ignore.

Her breath catches. “This is exactly what I mean about distance—” She steps back fast, trying to put space between us, but collides with the bookshelf, wincing.

“Ouch . . . We need to establish a clear bound—” Her “Professional Matchmaker” mug wobbles precariously on the edge of her desk.

I snag it with my free hand, without breaking eye contact, heat pooling low in my stomach as she bites her lower lip.

“If we’re going to convince people,” I set the mug safely aside but keep her trapped between me and the bookshelf, “they need to believe we can’t stand being apart.”

She swallows hard, her eyes darting anywhere but mine.

“We might even need some practice. According toresearch.” I cage her in, hands planted on either side of her.

Her lips part slightly. “Right. Yes. Definitely. Research shows that practicing is in need. We probably need some.”

“Teach me.” I tilt her chin up.

“Um . . . You can . . .” She reaches for my wrist, guiding my hand to her waist. “Put your hand here.”

I let my palm settle there, my fingers flexing slightly, feeling the soft curve beneath them.

“And . . . um . . . your other hand could . . .” Her voice wavers as she guides my other hand, placing it on her waist, mirroring the first.

I hold her waist with my hands. The warmth of her skin seeps through the fabric of her blouse. I don’t move, don’t squeeze, don’t push. I just wait.

And so does she.

“I . . . I think that is good enough.”

Her hands have somehow ended up gripping my shirt. Whether to push me away or pull me closer, I’m not sure she even knows.

“What about hand-holding?”

“I guess . . . it is needed . . .”

I gently uncurl her fingers from my shirt, my thumb skimming over her knuckles as I ease them open. Her hands are warm, impossibly soft, and much smaller than mine, so small that something tightens in my chest, wanting to protect her for a lifetime.

She slides her palms against mine, and I lace my fingers through hers, feeling the slight hitch in her breath.

Slowly, I guide our joined hands outward, one to each side, until our arms extend just enough to frame the space between us.

Her fingers are tightening and loosening. My stomach clenches, and a rush of heat spreads through my chest. I tighten my jaw to keep myself from pulling her closer and crossing the line we’ve just drawn.

“What do you think?” She takes a shaky breath.

“Looks pretty convincing to me.” I trace my thumb over her knuckles.

“What about . . . do we need to . . . you know . . .” She hesitates, her cheeks flushing a darker pink. “Kiss?”

“Depends on you.” I step closer, eliminating what little space remains between us. The heat of her body seeps into mine, making it hard to think straight.

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