28. Isla
Chapter 28
Isla
S omething warm and solid presses against my side.
Mochi?
He’s been on a roll lately, sneaking into my bed like he pays rent.
But . . . Mochi doesn’t breathe this deep. Or smell like cedarwood. He’s not this warm . . .
My eyes snap open.
Oh. My. Goodness.
I’m curled against my best friend. Like full-body, cheek-on-his-chest, hand-still-in-his-hand curled against him.
I jolt back, trying to put some space between us. Yes. Space is good. Because curling around your best friend like a human pretzel is definitely not in the fake dating handbook.
Asher’s lying half beside me, one elbow propped like it’s the most normal thing in the world. His white shirt is wrinkled to oblivion. Oh no. Has he been sleeping in his dress shirt all night? That can’t be comfortable.
His turquoise eyes are soft and half-lidded, lashes dipping low as he watches me.
“Morning, Peachie.” His lips pull into that lazy curve.
How long has he been looking at me like that? How long have I been drooling, or snoring, or saying something horrifying in my sleep?
His fingers rake through his already-messy hair, pushing it back like he doesn’t even know he’s starring in my personal romance novel.
Forget butterflies—I get a whole marching band in my stomach.
The dress I wore last night is twisted around my legs, and my hair feels like a bird made a nest in it overnight. My mouth is probably sleep-dry and tragic. And he’s lying there like he just walked out of a “Here’s what your fictional boyfriend looks like in the morning” Pinterest board.
How did we end up like this? I remember the hilltop, dancing under the stars, crying about my dad, my heel breaking, and a hazy memory of him carrying me. And me telling him to stay . . .
Heat crawls up my neck as fragments of memory surface. Me grabbing his shirt. Me patting the bed beside me.
Please tell me this is not true.
My sleepy self betrayed me. She has zero discipline. This is not how fake couples act. And it’s absolutely not something best friends do.
“How long have you been awake?” I croak, voice scratchy with sleep and existential dread.
“Long enough.” He reaches over to hand me the scrunchie from my nightstand. “You always hate when your hair gets in your face first thing in the morning.”
He ties my hair into the world’s softest ponytail, the way he always does. Sick days. Sleepovers. Movie marathons when I crashed halfway through.
My breath catches. There’s something about the way his fingers move that makes my chest feel too full. I might float right off the bed.
I need to move.
I sit up. But too fast, forgetting how close I still am—and momentum sends me tipping forward, straight toward him.
Oh no.
I throw out a hand to catch myself and land squarely against his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Just tilts his head slightly, one brow lifting.
“You okay?”
“I—Did you stay here the whole night?”
“You told me to.”
“I . . . what ?”
“You said—‘Come here, you’re warm and shaped like a couch I trust.’”
“I did not say that.”
“You did,” he says, smile growing. “Then you called me a marshmallow thief and made me hide under the blanket so the glitter bunnies wouldn’t find us.”
“I—”
“You also clawed at my shirt when I tried to leave.” He lifts the hem to show a tiny tear near the button seam. “Battle scar.”
My face is pure lava. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything else horrifying.”
Multiple people said I always say weird stuff when I’m sleepy. According to Elaine, I once said something about grounding the moon because it was acting suspicious.
Asher pauses. The corners of his mouth tug tight.
The air between us sharpens, the kind of silence you can feel against your skin.
“Asher.”
“Well.” He stretches like a smug cat, muscles shifting under the thin fabric of his shirt. “You said you finally got to see how your best friend dates.”
“That’s not bad. That’s a perfectly observational statement.”
“And then.” His eyes darken. “You said you didn’t know how I kiss.”
A bolt of heat punches through my chest. Pretty sure my soul just evacuated my body.
“I didn’t.”
“You did .” His thumb brushes across his lower lip.
“Oh my gosh. Please erase me from existence.” My hands fly up to cover my face.
Is there a course I can take to train my unconscious self to stop oversharing?
Wait.
Did we kiss?
Did I miss it?
“We didn’t kiss, Peachie.”
I exhale hard, peeking through my fingers. Can he not read my mind for, like, five seconds?
“But if you’re still curious . . .” His gaze dips to my lips, then drags back up to meet my eyes. “We could figure it out now.”
My pulse kicks up like it’s auditioning for a rock band. Yes. I want to know. So badly. But unlike my unconscious self, this version of me has boundaries. Rules. Discipline.
“NOPE,” I blurt, sitting up straighter. “No. No, thank you. I don’t think that was me. Probably just . . . dream-prepping. In case of emergency fake dating scenarios. Not because I want to know how you kiss.”
That would be rule-breaking. Heart-risking. Best-friend-ruining.
“Oh? Do you want to practice now? For preparedness?”
“I didn’t brush my teeth!” I yelp. “I mean—no. Of course not. I—I have a meeting! With Diane. For the Annual Matchmaking Event. Yep. Gotta go.”
I’m trying to focus on Diane’s spreadsheet, but all I can think about is how I fled my apartment this morning like it was on fire. After that whole awkward kiss suggestion, I practically teleported into the shower, dressed at superhuman speed, and bolted out the door with wet hair and mismatched socks.
Very professional, Isla. A+ adulting.
Now I’m sitting across from Diane Mills in her pristine office with its white furniture and minimalist decor, discussing budget proposals for our co-hosted Matchmaking Gala. My notebook is open to a page covered in calculations and crossed-out numbers.
“So if we drop the ticket price from $300 to $75,” I explain, tapping my pen against the paper, “we can actually increase attendance enough to make up the difference in revenue. Plus, we could offer a limited number of community-sponsored tickets for those who can’t afford even the reduced price.”
Diane frowns slightly, her perfectly manicured finger scrolling through her tablet. “That’s a significant reduction, Isla. The data suggests we could easily sell out at $300.”
“We could,” I agree, leaning forward, “but that’s not what the Matchmaking Gala is about—at least not to me. It’s about giving more people a real shot at trying matchmaking. Helping people find love . . . that’s a privilege. And I don’t want the ticket price to be the thing that keeps them out.”
I gesture to the spreadsheet. “Besides, with increased attendance, we can attract more sponsors. I’ve already spoken to five local businesses willing to contribute if we make the event more accessible.”
Diane sits back in her chair, her perfectly composed expression softening just a fraction. “You really believe in this, don’t you?”
“I do.” I meet her gaze directly. “Matchmaking isn’t just a business to me. It’s about helping people find their person. And everyone deserves that chance.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, tapping a perfectly polished nail against her desk. Then, to my surprise, she smiles, a genuine one that reaches her eyes.
“Alright, Isla. We’ll go with your pricing structure.” She makes a note on her tablet. “In fact, I might consider implementing a sliding scale for some of my services in the future.”
I blink, caught off guard by her easy agreement. “Really? That’s—thank you.”
“Don’t appear so stunned,” she remarks with a slight chuckle. “I’m not heartless. I’ve just grown accustomed to metropolitan rates and wasn’t considering this perspective. And perhaps lost sight of why I started doing this in the first place.”
“I’m . . . glad we found some middle ground,” I manage, my brain still catching up to this reality where Diane Mills and I were actually agreeing on something.
“You know, I think there’s room for both our approaches in this event. Maybe we could even do some research—see if our methods can complement each other and create something really special.”
“We could collaborate on a few matches,” I say.
“I’d love that.” Diane nods. “I don’t know why Kyle told me you weren’t good at matchmaking. It’s just that our methods are different.” She waves a hand vaguely. “I might even reconsider the contract—”
She pauses, then shakes her head. “Anyway, speaking of matches . . . I have to say, you and Asher Collymore make quite the striking couple.” Her expression shifts to something more playful.
My water goes down the wrong pipe, and I spend the next few seconds trying not to choke.
“I saw you both at the Couples’ Bingo Night. The chemistry was noticeable.”
“Oh, um, thanks,” I stammer, feeling heat creep up my neck. “It’s still pretty new.”
“Well, congratulations,” she says. “It’s refreshing to see a matchmaker who finds her own perfect match.”
Before I can formulate a coherent response, a knock sounds at the door. Diane glances over my shoulder, and her smile widens.
“Speaking of your perfect match . . .”
I turn to see Asher leaning against the doorframe, looking unfairly handsome in a navy Henley. His gaze finds mine, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “Just thought I’d see if my girlfriend needs some tea.”
My girlfriend.
Huh. How does he say that so naturally? I might believe it if I didn’t know this whole thing was fake.
“We were just finishing up,” Diane says before I can answer.
I gather my notes, feeling flustered as I stand. Asher crosses the room and takes my hand in his, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. The weight of his palm against mine feels almost too natural now. It’s only been a few days since we started our fake dating, but already, my hand seems to recognize his hand.
“You two are the sweetest,” Diane smiles, glancing between us with undisguised approval. “I’m so glad you figured things out.”
If only she knew.
“It was good working with you, Diane,” I try to sound professional despite Asher’s thumb now tracing small circles on the back of my hand. “I’ll email you the updated budget later today.”
“Looking forward to it,” Diane says, her smile tilting slyly. “But don’t let me get in the way of whatever adorable thing you two have going on.”
Heat creeps up my neck, races to my cheeks, probably even my elbows.
“Ready?” Asher asks, his voice soft.
I nod, words temporarily deserting me. We walk out together, his fingers sliding between mine, interlocking in a way that feels more intimate than it should.
“Why are you here?” I whisper, leaning slightly toward him. “I thought you had meetings all morning.”
I wasn’t expecting to see him again so soon. Not after this awkward morning.
“Rescheduled,” he says with a casual shrug. “Just thinking we should go around and be like a couple. To be convincing.”
He lifts our joined hands and presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles. His lips are warm, slightly rough, and linger just a heartbeat longer than necessary. When he looks up, his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my chest tighten.
It’s that look again. That Asher look. The one that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
I glance sideways. Is anyone watching us? Is Diane peeking through the blinds? Is Mrs. Henderson lurking with her camera?
Anyway—this is my one chance to date my best friend without consequence. Safely. Temporarily.
“Right.” I let my thumb trace over the edge of his hand. “So, where are we going now?”
He leans in and presses a kiss on my forehead. “How about I treat my girlfriend to those mochi donuts you’re always craving, and then we can lose track of time together at the bookstore?”