29. Asher
Chapter 29
Asher
I sla’s wearing my hoodie.
It wasn’t the plan. But she spilled coffee on her blouse five minutes after we left the apartment the next morning, muttering something about tragic caffeine sabotage, and then pulled my backup hoodie from the backseat like it was a perfectly reasonable solution.
Now she’s swimming in fleece, sleeves halfway down her hands
There’s something dangerously tempting about seeing your girl—okay, not officially, but still—in your hoodie. Like some primal part of my brain just lit a victory flag and sat back smug.
“Asher, this isn’t the way to the gym.”
Isla sits up straighter, her brow furrowing as she glances out the window at the unfamiliar route.
She’s not wrong. We’re supposed to be heading to my gym to finalize everything for the Senior and Adaptive Programs launch event. She’s been supporting me from the start, making the process much easier.
“Just wait.” I keep my voice easy, my grip on the wheel steady, but the smirk tugging at my lips is hard to control. “I have something to show you.”
“Show me what? The program launch is in two days, and we have so much to—”
“It’ll just take a minute. Trust me.”
I’ve been taking every chance to surprise her lately. A couple of days ago, I reserved the corner booth at the donut shop and slipped the barista a twenty to ice “Peachie” on her favorite one. And the bookstore owner just happened to hold onto that out-of-print romance novel she’d been searching for.
I make a left turn into a residential area. Kyle’s neighborhood.
I keep my expression neutral. How is Isla going to react? She could laugh. Or I’ll get the full Isla Ennis glare. Or she’ll demand I turn the car around.
Hopefully, Conner actually got the timing right.
Everything looks normal as we roll down the street. Driveways, mailboxes, perfectly trimmed.
“Oh. My. Gosh.”
Isla gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth as she catches sight of what I’ve been waiting for.
I slow the car, keeping my expression neutral even as my fingers tighten slightly on the wheel, fighting the urge to grin.
Kyle’s house stands before us, completely covered in sticky notes. Thousands of them—yellow, pink, blue, green—plastered over every inch of the windows, doors, and siding. His car hasn’t escaped either, wrapped in a rainbow of paper that makes it look like a deranged art project.
But that’s not even the best part.
Standing in perfect formation across his front yard is an army of at least fifty wacky inflatable tube men, their neon bodies flailing wildly. They bow and snap back up in a chaotic dance, like some kind of demented welcoming committee.
A long, stunned silence fills the car.
“Asher Collymore. Did you do this?” Isla gapes, half laughing, half horrified, hands flying to her head like she needs to physically hold in her thoughts.
“Not the best part yet. Wait.”
I pull the car to a stop across the street for the perfect front-row view.
Right on cue, a loud, obnoxious song blasts from hidden speakers. Something terrible. Something Conner absolutely chose on purpose.
Oh yeah. I’m paying him in steak dinners for the rest of the year.
Kyle bursts through his front door wearing plaid pajama pants, one bunny slipper, and absolutely nothing else—except for a neon “Kiss the Chef” apron.
Beautiful.
He rubs his face, still half-asleep, only to get absolutely wrecked by a violently enthusiastic tube man. His arms pinwheel, his entire body recoiling as the inflatable menace flaps against him like it holds a personal grudge. His face is a masterpiece of pure, undiluted horror as his brain tries to process the Technicolor nightmare his life has become.
And then the Pilates instructor, the one Kyle cheated with while he was still with Isla, appears, tripping over a pile of sticky notes stuck to her feet like she’s starring in a rom-com gone horribly wrong.
Isla loses it. Her laughter explodes beside me, full, unrestrained, the kind that makes her whole body shake. She leans across and lands a punch on my chest—if you can even call it that. It’s so soft, I barely feel it.
“Asher! This is insane! Tell me you didn’t do this. Tell me.”
I grin, rubbing the spot like she actually did some damage.
“I plead the fifth.”
Kyle stumbles down his porch steps and rips a handful of sticky notes off his front door, only to discover another layer of sticky notes underneath. A gust of wind hits, sending hundreds of sticky notes flying into the air. They swirl around like confetti.
They blanket Kyle and the Pilates instructor in a fluorescent blizzard, sticking to their hair, faces, and pajama-clad bodies like nature itself is mocking them. The look of pure, soul-crushing despair on his face is everything I hoped for.
“Hmm,” I tilt my head innocently. “Let’s just say I don’t really like my girlfriend’s exes . . .”
“Wait. Did you always prank my exes?”
“Not as bad as this one, really. But yeah.”
She presses her forehead against my shoulder, her body shaking from laughing. “Okay, I feel kind of bad . . . but also, thank you for unleashing some of my inner evilness. I only dared to act on it in my dreams.”
She leans up and presses a light kiss on my cheek.
Something clenches low in my gut. I keep my face still, jaw tight.
We’ve been playing the part for two weeks now, and some things have started to feel too natural. Nothing about it feels like pretending anymore. Like how she loops her arm through mine without thinking. How she leaned her head on my shoulder and laced her fingers through mine during that Frosthaven movie night in the park. How she said “babe” at the coffee shop the other day and didn’t even flinch.
I’m sure she’s getting used to it.
That’s good. That’s the plan.
“Oh! Sorry—uh—” She jerks back so fast her head knocks against the window. “I forgot—I mean, someone might see us from outside. So, you know . . . better to look like a real couple.”
She rubs her head. “What I meant to say was . . . um, thank you. You know. For being a very responsible, very upstanding fake boyfriend who takes excellent revenge on my exes.”
Fake.
My jaw tenses for half a second before I pull off a smirk. “Anytime, babe.”
She quickly turns her attention back to the crime scene.
Kyle’s now in the middle of his driveway, gesturing wildly at his yard and shouting something we can’t hear through the closed windows.
At that exact moment, one of the inflatables bends forward dramatically, as if it’s bowing directly at Kyle. Another one tips sideways, landing with a soft thump on the hood of his sticky-noted car, still flapping enthusiastically against the metal.
“Don’t worry.” I lean back casually. “It’s zip-tied to his porch. It’s not going anywhere.”
A few elderly next-door neighbors shuffle outside, because obviously, nothing in Frosthaven is complete without the senior citizen fan club. Mrs. Henderson whips out her phone. Probably to send it to her knitting group.
And Nancy Fitzpatrick, Frosthaven’s most relentless (and, unfortunately, only) professional news reporter. She’s already in full attack mode, cornering Kyle like he’s the lead suspect in a high-stakes crime drama.
Kyle, still tragically barefoot except for his single bunny slipper, looks like he’s going through all five stages of grief in real-time. His hands flail in wild protest as Nancy shoves a microphone close to his face.
Isla is laughing again with tears streaming down her face. She clutches her stomach, barely able to speak. “Should we help them?”
“Nah,” I put the car in drive. “I think they’ve got it under control.”
“You’re terrible!” Isla wipes at her tear-streaked cheeks. “You’re going to tell me why you really did this and who helped you, right?”
“I’ll explain everything .”
Everything. Even the parts she doesn’t know yet.
“So you mean he did it on purpose?”
“Yes.” I tap the folder of evidence Xander compiled and set it aside on my desk. Once we arrive at my office at the gym, I tell her everything Conner and Xander discovered about Kyle’s efforts to sabotage her business.
She sighs, rolling her shoulders like she’s trying to shake off the weight of it all. I step behind her chair, placing my hands on her shoulders and pressing my thumbs gently into the tense muscles.
“Well, that explains a lot.” She exhales, sinking slightly into my touch. “At least now I know what I’m up against.”
“Xander will take care of it. And he promised he’d do it legally.”
My fingers move in slow circles, working through the tension. It seems to be doing its job because she melts just a little more with every press of my fingers.
“My shoulder is actually getting better, thanks to your training.”
I dip my head closer. “Then you should train with me more often.”
“I will think about it.” She tilts her head, her cheeks brushing my arm. “Thank you, though. And thank you for the epic prank.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
She looks up at me with a soft smile that undoes me every time. The one that makes the corner of her mouth quirk up, and her eyes light up with gold flecks. It’s like watching the sun break through clouds after a long storm—sudden, breathtaking, worth the wait.
I want to trace it with my thumb, memorize the way it curves, the way it fits her face like it was made to be there. The way it appears because of something I said, something I did.
It’s my favorite accomplishment.
I could watch her smile all day and never get bored.
Actually, scratch that—my whole life wouldn’t be enough.
“How’s the matchmaking gala going?” I ask because if I keep staring at her, I might do something reckless.
“It’s coming together. I convinced Diane and the committee to lower the ticket prices, and we’re each hosting different small activities.”
“It’s soon, right? Maybe you should focus on that. I can handle the launch event myself.”
“No way. I’m not missing your big event!”
“But yours is the one week after that.”
“Right. And after that . . .” She pauses. “Do we stop the fake dating thing? It went by fast, though.”
My chest tightens. I’ve been purposely avoiding the breakup part of the plan. Because all it does is remind me that this—her, us—is temporary. Borrowed time.
I want her to get used to it. To forget we were ever just friends.
I could just tell her my real plan. Lay it all out. Or maybe I should just kiss her breathlessly and let her taste every unspoken word. Because somehow, words feel too small for everything I feel.
But what if she runs away again? What if she’s still afraid I’ll leave, like everyone else? How can I convince her I’m already hers?
I don’t want to watch her walk out of my life. Not when she’s been in my life for as long as I can remember. Not when that smile of hers is the first thing I want to see every morning and the last thing I want to remember before sleep.
“Sounds like you didn’t get enough.”
“Oh no . . . I was just asking . . .” Her fingers twitch against her lap.
I lean in, tilting my head just enough that my mouth brushes close to her ear.
“What else do you want us to do?”
“Oh no, nothing! Nothing at all!” She shoots up from her chair so fast, she almost knocks it over. “How about you let me massage you?”
I barely bite back a grin as she spins toward me, looking anywhere but at my face. Before she can escape, I press a hand to her shoulder, guiding her back into her seat.
“Don’t want you tiring those hands.”
And I have no idea what I’d do if she touched me more. That wouldn’t be a massage. It’d be torture.
“I’m not fragile.”
“You aren’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be comfortable.”
Her breath hitches, just barely, but she recovers fast.
“Let’s walk through your plan for the program launch.” She turns her chair around.
I pull up the spreadsheet on my laptop, and she slides her chair closer to mine. The faint scent of her shampoo—peaches, I’m sure of it—makes it hard to focus on the screen.
“I’ve scheduled demonstrations from the rehab specialists here,” I point to a section on the timeline. “And set aside time for testimonials from some of the seniors who’ve been testing the program.”
“Is there anything I can help with?” Her eyes scan the document, and I can see her brain cataloging and organizing.
“Not really. You only need to show up, smile, and pretend to be impressed by me.”
Her fingers freeze on the trackpad, but she keeps her eyes on the screen.
“Have you thought about adding a Q&A session after the demonstrations? People might want to ask questions.”
“Already in there.” I scroll down to show her. “Right after the refreshments.”
“You really thought of everything, huh?”
“I learned from the best.” I smile, remembering how Isla used to organize every group project we did in school, color-coded folders and all.
I turn to her. “Also, Dad agreed to share his recovery story.”
“Your Dad’s going to speak?” Her eyes widened. “Really? That’s amazing!”
Before I can answer, Isla throws her arms around my neck, launching herself at me. The chair wheels squeak beneath us as I steady her, her weight shifting into my lap. Her knees slide to either side of mine, and she buries her face against my neck.
“That’s huge! Does this mean he loves the new program? I’m so happy for you. This is amazing. The seniors are going to love hearing his story—and remember how worried you were about telling him? Now he’s actually going to speak! This is incredible—”
She freezes mid-ramble, her eyes flicking to where her arm is still looped around my neck.
I chuckle. Having Isla in my arms feels right in a way I can’t put into words.
“Sorry, I just—this is big, really big. And you smell nice, no—”
She starts to pull back.
Not happening.
I tighten my hands on her waist. She’s warm and soft and perfect in my lap. In my hoodie. And yeah . . . that does something to me. Not just the way it looks—though it’s a sight I wouldn’t mind getting used to.
“You know,” My fingers flex slightly, feeling the soft curve of her beneath my palms. “Most people just say congratulations.”
Her weight shifts slightly on my lap, tilting her head in a way that makes me want to kiss the thoughts right out of her mind. A sharp jolt runs through me, tightening my chest.
I want to pull her closer. Want to let her feel exactly what she’s doing to me. I exhale slowly through my nose.
“I’m . . . sorry . . .” She inhales sharply
“I’m not complaining.”
My hand slides up her back, tracing the curve of her spine. We’re both breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling against mine. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.
Neither of us moves.
“I’ve always wondered . . .” Her fingers toy with a few strands of my hair, tugging just slightly before letting them go.
Every muscle in my body locks up, tension coiling tight in my stomach. I force myself to remain still. I need to hear her say it. Need to know this isn’t just in my head.
“What do you want, Peachie?”