7. Isla
Chapter 7
Isla
ISLA
Found something you’ll love on the way back.
ASHER
Cooking something you’ll love at your place
ISLA
I’ll be back in five minutes.
ASHER
What’s this mysterious something you found?
ISLA
Nope. Not telling, unless you tell me if you’re accepting my brilliant plan first.
ASHER
Again, not sure. Depends on you.
W hat does that even mean?
I’m still trying to decode it when I push open my apartment door, and the scent hits me like a wave. Basil. Garlic. Parmesan. Pesto pasta.
My favorite.
All I can think about right now is how amazing that smells in here. Nothing else seems half as important as whatever magic is happening on the stove. My stomach growls so loudly I’m pretty sure Betty’s cat next door just hissed in protest.
Asher’s always been an excellent cook, while I’m the one who might set off the smoke alarm trying to fry an egg. One of the perks of living next door to him is that I get to suffer my lack of cooking skills a whole lot less and enjoy whatever delicious thing my gorgeous best friend happens to be making.
“Smells amazing, Collybear! Are you trying to ruin every other meal for me?”
Asher is in my kitchen. Wearing my ridiculous frilly mint green apron with Hot Stuff Coming Through emblazoned across the chest in sparkly pink letters. The one Elaine gave me as a joke last Christmas, which I’d stuffed in the back of my drawer because Kyle would’ve given me that tight-lipped look. The tiny thing barely covers Asher’s chest, the strings tied in what looks like a five-year-old’s attempt at a bow behind his back.
How does he make that ridiculous thing look good? It’s not fair. Seriously, not fair at all.
“You know, you make that apron look so . . . inadequate.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Asher turns, wooden spoon in hand, a smudge of green pesto on his cheek. His turquoise eyes crinkle at the corners. “I make anything work.”
Yes. Yes, you do.
I drop my bag on the counter, wandering over to peek around his shoulder. The scent of his cologne mingles with the basil and pine nuts. Something inside me melts a little.
“If you could be a cook and start a restaurant, I would be your loyal customer. Emphasis on the loyal. Like, stalker-level loyal.”
“Just what my ego needs—more inflation,” he chuckles. “You’re early. I’m almost finished.”
I hop up onto the counter beside him, my legs swinging. “I saw a new flavor of gummy bear, so I bought a few for you.”
I dig through my purse, past receipts, lip balm, and three pens until I find the small bag of blue gummy bears. Asher’s secret addiction since third grade. The man who meal-preps like a fitness god but keeps emergency gummy bears in his gym bag like they’re life-saving medication.
“Blueberry?” His eyes light up like I’ve just handed him the keys to a Ferrari. “Mind feeding me some? Hands are occupied.”
I narrow my eyes at his wicked smile.
“You’re perfectly capable of washing your hands, Collymore.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
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.
I broke that rule with Kyle, and it ended in emotional flames. No way I’m doing that again with Asher.
“I don’t know, Asher . . . I’m not exactly gym material.”
He taps my nose with a little smirk, “Come on. Afraid you can’t keep up with me?”
“Fine,” I blurt out. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Looking forward to it, Peachie.”