Page 72 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“I should run it again. Maybe refresh. Maybe unplug the router. Maybe—”

I run the test again. Still 100%. “Ha. That’s funny. Super weird. Totally inaccurate.”

Asher shifts beside me, and suddenly, he’s everywhere. His arm drops onto the cushion at my back. His presence swallows up the space between us. I feel him before I even look.

“Interesting result, isn’t it?” His voice is smooth, too smooth. A slow prickle crawls down my spine.

I risk a glance at him. His eyes are locked on me, darker than usual. His broad shoulders angled toward me like he’s not planning to move.

“It’s just a program,” I blurt out. “A dumb one. Code is flawed all the time. I mean, Netflix still recommends Christmas movies in March. The result doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’ve always trusted your skill. Looks like I was right to.”

I squint at him, then press my palm to his forehead, checking for a fever. Maybe he’s sick. Or concussed. Or maybe he’s just lost his mind.

“Are you feeling okay?” I mutter, half-expecting him to start speaking in tongues.

Asher’s eyes crinkle. Before I can pull away, his hand catches my wrist, fingers closing around me.

I should say something. And I should definitely not be noticing the way his fingers wrap around my wrist like they belong there. Or how ridiculously warm his skin is.

“How about we run the Heart Rate Sync test? Isn’t that part of your process?” His thumb starts moving in a slow stroke against my skin. I suck in a breath.

Nope. Nope, nope. This is not okay.

The Heart Rate Sync test is reserved for those rare perfect matches. The science shows couples in love literally sync their heartbeats. Autonomic nervous system responses, proven by multiple studies. I’ve only used it twice before, both times with couples who scored a hundred percent. Both times, I was just an observer.

This time . . . this time, I’d be the test subject.

I try to pull back, but his grip tightens just enough to make my stomach flip. Not in abadway.

In avery, verybad way.

I clear my throat. “That test is . . . optional.”

Before I can spiral further, Asher presses my hand flat against his chest. It’s solid, warm, and undeniably firm beneath my palm. His heartbeat thuds under my palm, steady as a metronome. “Go on,” he says, voice soft and teasing. “Test me.”

I blink, brain scrambling. I fumble my other hand to my own chest, fingers splaying over my heart. It’s pounding like it just ran a marathon.

“What’s the verdict?” he murmurs, his voice rumbling under my palm. My own heart races wildly beneath my other hand, while his remains frustratingly even. It’s not fair how collected he seems when I’m unraveling at every edge.

His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand where it rests against his heart. Under my palm, his heart slowly speeds up, and mine slowly down. The synchronicity steals my breath.

“They’re in sync, right?” His eyes hold mine.

My eyes widen, and I gasp, barely audible.

His turquoise eyes darken, like a predator who’s just cornered its prey. “Maybe you should be my match.”

WHAT?

I blink at him. And blink again.

Just to be sure, I pinch my arm. Hard. Then harder.

Ow. Okay. Not a dream.

Asher’s lips twitch. “You’re awake, Peachie.”

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