Page 30 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

I roll my eyes but pull out a gummy bear anyway. “Fine. Open up.”

He leans forward, and I pop the candy into his mouth. My fingertips brush against his lips. My pulse stumbles, then takes off like it’s trying to run laps around my entire body.

What is wrong with me? It’s just Asher. Just my best friend. Just the guy who’s seen me with chicken pox and braces and that horrific perm in eighth grade.

“Verdict?”

“Mmm.” He chews thoughtfully. “Not bad. Not as good as the watermelon ones, but I’ll take it.”

“Such a gummy bear snob.” I slide off the counter. “So I went to Diane Mills’ presentation today.”

“The rival matchmaker? Isn’t that like Pepsi executives sneaking into a Coca-Cola factory tour?”

“It was a public event. And I got some ideas about how I can improve my system. Her approach is actually similar to what I’ve been working toward.”

“What kind of approach are we talking about?”

I lean against the counter. “She has this system where people can find someone who checks all their dream boxes.”

“And that’s what you want to do?” Asher’s voice drops, his forehead creasing with that little wrinkle that only appears when he’s concerned. “Turn matchmaking into a checklist?”

Why is he looking at me like that? Like I’ve just announced I’m giving up matchmaking to join a traveling circus. He’s usually my biggest cheerleader, the guy who helped me hang my “Love By Design” sign even though it was raining.

“Well . . . It’s more reliable. More scientific.”

Asher rinses his hands in the sink and dries them on a dish towel. “Is, please don’t blindly change to someone else’s way just because it looks shiny and new. You have your own special eyes. You see connections that a checklist never could.”

His words hit something inside me. How is he so sure?

“Maybe,” I glance away, blinking at a tiny crack in the floor tile. “But my business is still tanking.”

“About that.” He picks up a gummy bear. “I’ll let you match me.”

The gummy lands on my tongue before I can fully process what he just said. “Did you just agree to let me match you?”

Asher’s lips curl into that infuriatingly charming smirk, and he reaches out to pat me on the head like I’m some sort of confused puppy.

“Why? Are you regretting it already?”

Oh.I just signed myself up to watch my best friend charm some lucky woman with those gentle hands and that heart-melting smile. Front row seats to witness someone else getting all those thoughtful gestures that make my insides turn to jelly.

I could back out. I should back out. But my business is hanging by a thread, and Asher’s offer might be the lifeline I need.

“But,” he says, holding up a finger, “I have one condition.”

“What kind of condition?”

Asher’s grin widens. “If I have to play along with this matchmaking thing, you have to let me train you at the gym.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me. Weekly training sessions at my gym. With me.”

Asher. In workout gear. Me. In workout gear. His hands adjusting my form. His voice counting reps in my ear. My face heats up at the mental image.

Does he want to spend more time with me? No. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s already agreed to let me match him. This is just him being a supportive friend. And now he’s my client, which means I need to remember the number one rule of matchmaking:

Never fall for your client.

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