5. Isla
Chapter 5
Isla
T wo birds, one stone. A genius idea.
This is why I’m standing outside Asher’s apartment door now.
I thought about it the whole ride back from his parents’ house, paced around my apartment for twenty minutes, then marched straight here before I could talk myself out of it.
The small whiteboard hangs next to his door. It’s our shared message board for emergency snack requests and random notes.
Isla: Why does the lavender-chamomile tea you make taste better than mine?
Asher: I didn’t forget about it and let it steep for 20 years.
My knuckles rap against the door in a frantic rhythm that matches my racing heart. Every fiber of my being is screaming that this plan is terrible. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and my rapidly imploding matchmaking business definitely qualifies as desperate.
It’s almost too convenient how close we still live. Three years ago, when Mom remarried, I decided it was time to fly the nest. And Asher just happened to mention one of his gym clients was renting out a place next door to his apartment and offered a can’t-pass-up price. The price was so unbelievable I had to read the listing three times before I let myself believe it was real. It was a lifesaver, especially with my tight budget after starting my matchmaking business.
Sometimes, I wonder if Asher bribed the landlord.
It all fell into place too fast and too easily. We live so close that I can smell his cinnamon protein pancakes in the morning and catch a glimpse of how ridiculously good he looks in his workout gear every day.
Too bad he’ll never be mine.
I knock on his door several more times, even though I know the passcode. If he doesn’t answer, that’s the universe telling me he’s busy, and I should wait a few more days before springing my grand plan on him.
Just as I’m about to chicken out and bolt, the door swings open.
Asher’s eyebrows are knitted together in concern. Water droplets cascade from his tousled hair, glimmering like tiny jewels before they journey south, directly down his sculpted chest.
Oh, good grief. A shirtless Asher.
“Did something happen, Is?” His eyes search my face, the little line between his brows deepening. “You know you can just come in, right?”
A rush of heat floods my cheeks. Nothing usable comes out of my mouth because all my functional brain cells have apparently packed up at the sight of my very shirtless, very hot best friend standing right in front of me.
Another droplet slides down the curve of his shoulder, across his collarbone, and lower. It slips between the ridges of his chest and drags over the cut lines of his abs, every groove crisp and defined. His muscles aren’t the bulky, overdone kind but the lean, powerful build that comes from years of actual work.
I have to attempt that square breathing trick I read about somewhere. In for four. Hold. Out for six. In for four. Out for—
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Is? You okay?” His bicep flexes as he shifts in the doorway.
I’m NOT checking out my best friend right now.
I’m NOT counting the ridiculously defined muscles on his stomach.
I’m absolutely NOT noticing how his torso looks like it’s been chiseled by angels who clearly worked overtime.
One. Two. Three . . . Is that an eight-pack?
I swallow hard, trying to suppress the dryness in my throat. It’s not like I’ve never seen Asher shirtless before. We’ve practically grown up together, for crying out loud.
“If you’re trying to telepathically tell me something, I’m gonna need a little more to go on than stunned silence.”
Right. Words. I should use those.
“I, uh . . . important business!” My eyes are darting anywhere but at his eyes. “Very urgent. Yep. Super urgent.”
Since when did his shoulders look that broad?
“Urgent, huh?” He leans one toned arm against the doorframe.
Why does that one muscle keep doing that thing?
“I’m not . . . I mean . . .” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Can I come in? I promise it won’t take long.”
“Come in. And I don’t mind if it takes a while.”
Asher steps back, giving me space to enter. My shoulder bumps his bare chest, and something zings straight down to my toes like a caffeine shot to the soul. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t step back.
Is he feeling it too?
Maybe I’m just imagining it. Either way, it does absolutely nothing to help my scrambled thoughts.
“Let me grab a shirt, and then you can tell me all about this urgent business.” He heads toward his bedroom.
His apartment is clean and minimal, with all cool grays and deep blues. Everything has its place, from the precisely arranged dumbbells in the corner to the protein shaker lined up perfectly with his coffee maker.
The bookshelf near the window has our shared collection that’s grown so much over the years. We read each other’s books, trading stories and opinions. There’s only one kind of book I won’t share with him. My secret stash of romance novels.
I keep those tucked away because more than one ex, Kyle included, laughed and called them silly. Unrealistic. After that, I stopped talking about those books with guys. It just seemed easier. I don’t know what Asher would think. But I’ve learned it’s usually safer not to bring it up.
But sometimes, I wonder what it might look like in real life. What it would feel like to have a boyfriend who actually does those things. What it would feel like if Asher ever did them.
The hand-braced-on-the-wall kisses.
The you were always mine speeches.
Stop it.
I’m here on a mission. A completely platonic, totally professional mission to find Asher his perfect match and save my business.
I perch on the edge of Asher’s couch, my end of the couch, since I’ve claimed that corner as my designated spot during our weekly movie nights. The blanket I always use is already folded and waiting.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out.
UNKNOWN
Hi Isla. It’s your dad. I know it’s been a long time.
I inhale sharply, the air catching at the top of my lungs. The memory flashes like lightning.
Seven-year-old me stood frozen at the window, clutching the teddy bear Dad gave me, watching as he drove away. Conner was beside me, holding a half-built LEGO spaceship. Dad said he was going away for work. But we knew something was off. He never packed that much for a trip.
The stars were sharp that night, too many for a night that was breaking everything apart.
For weeks after, Conner and I would stand at that same window, telling Mom we were watching the stars. But we were waiting. Still believing he’d come back.
Until we didn’t.
It must be a scam. Maybe the same kind that once offered me a cursed heirloom or told me I’d won a cruise I never entered. I lock the screen and shove the phone deep into my bag. No one disappears for twenty-one years and suddenly decides to text.
Especially not to the people they abandoned.
Asher emerges from his bedroom, thankfully fully clothed this time. He plops down next to me, close enough that I catch that woody scent of him. I inhale deeply. Something about his scent settles the uneasy thrum curling in my chest.
“You okay? You look . . .” His brow furrows.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just a spam text.”
I’ve barely mentioned my dad to Asher. Or anyone, really. It’s the kind of topic our family pretends never existed.
“Okay.” His brows ease, and he shifts to face me. “Before we talk about whatever brought you here . . . Can we clear the air first?”
“Um . . . What air, exactly?”
“That day at the lake, after Greg broke up with you . . . You asked me—”
Oh no. Is that the air he wants to clear?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You think that I . . . rejected . . . um—”
Stop. Stop. Stop.
A hot flush rushes straight to my ears, melting whatever was left of the heavy Dad memory. Sad, I can handle. But this? This is the kind of top-tier embarrassment that makes you want to vanish into the floor. Especially when it’s happening in front of the one person you really wish it wasn’t.
“Not such a thing. Must’ve been the sunstroke. Or maybe you dreamed it. Or maybe I dreamed it.”
Asher’s brow furrows. His jaw goes rigid. I want to crawl into the couch cushions and disappear.
“I thought you mis—”
I clap my hand over his mouth. My fingertips brush against the faint scratch of stubble. Oh . His lips are warm. And soft.
“Nope and nope. Water . . . water under the bridge. All good.”
We are not cracking open that awkward memory. We are not dusting it off, not holding it up to the light, not revisiting the moment when he oh-so-kindly rejected me.
We are pretending it never happened. I survived. We’re good. No need to mess with that.
No need to add another embarrassment to my permanent record.
His mouth moves beneath my palm. Oh . My hand is still on his face. On his lips.
I yank my hand back like I’ve touched a hot stove. He leans back. A slow breath fills his chest. His jaw tightens, the muscle pulling taut beneath his skin. I’m pretty sure he’s counting to five in his head.
“We’re all clear, right?” I ask once I’ve counted to five myself.
“If you say so.”
I don’t know why he wants to bring up something from years ago. But I don’t ask. I’d rather forget the whole thing. I don’t want to remember how he couldn’t meet my eyes, how tense he got trying not to let me down.
The silence stretches between us like a frayed wire. I lunge to grab the TV remote from the far end of the coffee table. A cooking show is definitely the mature way to avoid awkward moments like this.
A sharp zap slices through my shoulder like I just got tasered by my own body. I freeze mid-stretch, hissing through my teeth.
Asher sits up fast. “Your shoulder again?”
“It’s nothing,” I wave him off. There are more important things to worry about than an old injury that’ll probably fix itself, eventually.
Before I can protest further, he moves behind me. His warm hands find my shoulders, settling into their usual spots.
“Ash, I’m here to talk . . .” My voice is already turning to mush. “About something else. Important things. Not . . . this.”
Ever since I started having shoulder pain, he’s appointed himself as my personal tension-reliever, whether I ask for it or not.
“Shh. Later.” His thumbs are digging into that magical pressure point like he’s got a PhD in Shoulder Rescue. “Still hurts?”
“It’s fine. Just that it acts up sometimes.”
His fingers are still for a moment, and he takes a deep breath.
“You never did get this checked out, did you?”
“I don’t need to. It comes and goes.” It’s just a minor thing anyway, nothing worth bothering anyone.
“Can you stop brushing it off? It’s not fine. And I heard you hauled those speakers across the square like some kind of hero. You could’ve called me, Peachie. You know that stuff’s not helping, right? Probably making it worse.”
My mouth goes dry. Something warm blooms in my chest, curling up beneath my ribs. Why does he have to say things that make me feel like I matter more than I should?
His hands slow their movement. They shift to work in a different spot. “So, what’s this urgent business that had you pounding on my door?”
“I wasn’t pounding . . .” I mumble, then clear my throat. “I mean, sorry if I worried you. It’s not an emergency or anything.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You looked ready to break the door down.”
“Okay, maybe I was a little . . . enthusiastic.”
I take a deep breath. The words I’d practiced vanish like ice cream on a hot day.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Asher’s hands slow, then stop. He moves back around to sit beside me. My shoulder immediately protests the loss of his touch.
“Oh?” He tilts his head down, his eyes locking with mine. “This should be good.”
“So . . . you know things have been a little rough with my business lately. I don’t want you covering my rent or giving me anything for free, but I think I’ve come up with the perfect solution.”
“Yes?”
“I can help you find your ideal match!”
“You’re matching me with other women?” His words grind out like chewing on shards of glass.
I’m not sure why his voice is getting rough. I’m the one who should be bitter here. Matching my childhood crush and best friend feels like setting up your dream vacation for someone else and then staying home to do their laundry.
I’ve buried my feelings, mostly. But it still stings to imagine him holding hands with other women.
Especially with my help.
“Think about it!” I say, warming to my topic. “You’re Frosthaven’s most eligible bachelor! If anyone deserves a perfect match, it’s you. And I’m not charging you a dime. I just need to rebuild my reputation. So really, it’s a win-win!”
I flip open my notebook, ready to dazzle him with my meticulous planning. “I’ve already started brainstorming your perfect woman. She’ll be—”
“Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Asher interrupts, a smirk playing on his lips. “And what makes you think I need help finding a match?”
“Please. When was the last time you went on a real date? Face it, Collymore, you’re hopeless without me.”
Asher’s lips twitch. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right person.”
Ouch. And I’d really love to know who that is. Or help him find her, apparently.
“Exactly!” I tug my smile wider. “That’s where I come in. Trust me, Asher. By the time I’m done, you’ll be head over heels in love.”
“And what kind of woman do you think I’d like?” Asher leans in, bracing one hand on the couch behind me. Butterflies riot in my stomach like they’ve had too much caffeine.
It’s probably just indigestion from dinner.
“Oh, you know.” I shift to my side, needing distance before I do something wild like trace the curve of his perfect jawline. “Someone kind, loyal . . . Caring, too. Oh, and she should love the outdoors as much as you do. Maybe we could set up a hiking date!”
“Interesting.”
His hand settles at the back of my head, fingers slipping into my hair. He gathers a section, gentle but sure, and runs his fingers down through the length before letting it fall.
“Don’t you think you might be missing a few key traits?”
Every nerve in my scalp sits up like it’s just been personally greeted. It’s not the first time he’s touched my hair. When we were younger, he used to braid my hair on long car rides or when I couldn’t be bothered to do it myself. Sometimes he’d brush it, too. He said he heard his aunt claim it made hair smoother if you did it often. He always took it weirdly seriously, like it was a mission.
But right now, it feels different .
“What are these key traits I’m missing?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know.” His tone dips lower. “Maybe someone passionate, a little clumsy, but always means well.”
What is that supposed to mean?
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Collymore.”
“Maybe I’m not as easy to match as you think.”
Asher’s lips curl into a slow smile that does absolutely nothing to help my indigestion. His hand slips from my hair.
My fingers twitch. They’re half a second from reaching up to keep him there.
“You want me to keep going?” He raises an eyebrow.
“That will be—I mean—nope. I’m good.”
Oh boy. Why is it suddenly so warm in here? I fan myself with my notebook, hoping he doesn’t notice my flushed cheeks. It’s really not professional to get like this in front of my potential client.
“You okay there? You look a little flustered.” He reaches for the pack of peach rings on the table. “Do you need some?”
“I’m fine! Just, uh, thinking deeply about your perfect match. Very professional thoughts happening here.”
“Thanks for the offer, Isla, but I think I’ll pass. I’d do just about anything for you, just not this one.”
My smile falters, and my stomach drops. “What? But . . . why not?”
Asher runs a hand through his damp hair. “It’s not that I don’t trust your skills.”
“Then what is it?” I ask, my voice small. Does he think I’m bad at matchmaking, too?
“It’s not about trust. It’s about knowing what I want and who I want.”
I blink. My brain’s in a full-blown traffic jam. Thoughts swerving, honking, trying to merge into the same lane at once.
Because Asher is impossible to read tonight.
“Right, of course.” I wave my hand. “Mr. Picky strikes again.”
He catches my hand mid-air, closing around mine before I can pull away.
“You think you know me so well.” His thumb settles low in my palm and holds there. “It’s time you realized you don’t.”