Page 2 of Fake Dating the Next-Door (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #6)

I've lost my damn mind.

That's the only explanation for why I'm standing in my garage, staring at this half-sanded dresser, seriously considering playing boyfriend to my bubbly next-door neighbor.

Sunny Bloom. Even her name is ridiculous, like something out of a children's book about fairies.

She's twenty-five, for Christ's sake. Fifteen years my junior and about a thousand years younger in life experience.

She's all bright smiles and wild curls and relentless optimism, while I'm... well, not.

I run my palm over the dresser's surface, checking for rough spots. The repetitive motion calms me, gives me something to focus on besides the image of Sunny leaning against our fence, her hair a mess and those big brown eyes pleading with me.

"Focus, Stone," I mutter to myself, reaching for the sandpaper again.

I'd been up since 0500, same as every day for the past twenty years. Old habits from the military die hard, especially when the nightmares wake you anyway. My shoulder aches dully, a permanent souvenir from my last tour. The doctors did their best, but some damage can't be undone. Story of my life.

The quiet of Cedar Falls had been exactly what I needed after discharge.

No expectations, no one to be responsible for, no one to let down.

Just me, my projects, and blessed silence.

Until Sunny Bloom moved in next door eight months ago, bringing with her loud music, late nights, and constant attempts at conversation.

I should find her annoying. I tell myself I do. But there's something about her, something genuine, that makes it impossible to completely shut her out.

Still, pretending to be her boyfriend? That's crossing a line. Getting involved with anyone, even pretend-involved, means complications. Attachments. The very things I've been avoiding since settling here.

But the look on her face when she mentioned her parents... I recognize that look. It's the face of someone who's trying so damn hard to prove themselves worthy. I know it well—saw it in the mirror for years trying to live up to my father's impossible standards.

The sandpaper tears in my grip. I toss it aside, annoyed at myself for getting distracted.

Truth is, I've watched Sunny work herself to exhaustion through her office window too many nights. She's no flake, despite what her parents apparently think. She's just... young. Idealistic. Hasn't had life kick the hope out of her yet.

And God help me, I like that about her. I like that she bakes when she's stressed and leaves cookies on my porch despite my complaints. I like that she talks to her plants and dances while she waters them, not caring who sees. I even like her ridiculously cheerful "good mornings" over the fence.

What I don't like is how often I catch myself thinking about her. Or how I've memorized her schedule. Or how I make sure I'm in the garage when she typically takes her morning coffee on the porch.

"This is a bad idea," I tell the empty garage. The last thing Sunny needs is her parents thinking she's involved with the damaged, antisocial ex-military guy next door.

The last thing I need is pretending to be close to someone I've been trying to keep at arm's length.

I set aside my tools and step out into the mid-morning sun, stretching my stiff shoulder. It's nearly noon now. Sunny's client call should be long finished. I glance toward her house and notice her car is gone. Probably making a grocery store run or grabbing lunch.

Good. Gives me time to come to my senses.

I head inside to make a sandwich, my house feeling particularly empty today. Unlike Sunny's cheerful clutter, my place is organized with military precision. Neutral colors, minimal decor, everything in its place. It's exactly how I want it. No surprises, no chaos.

Except now I'm picturing Sunny here, how she'd probably insist on adding "a pop of color" or whatever the hell she's always talking about while showing me paint swatches over the fence.

She'd fill the silence with chatter, ask questions about my military service that I wouldn't want to answer, poke at wounds better left undisturbed.

And yet...

I find myself standing at my kitchen window, watching her driveway for her return.

The truth I've been avoiding slams into me with the subtlety of an IED: I want her. Not just physically, though there's definitely that, but all of her. The brightness she brings to everything. The way she sees good in everyone, even a grumpy bastard like me.

It's precisely why I should say no to this whole charade. Because pretending to be with Sunny, getting a taste of something I can't have—shouldn't have—would be torture.

Three hours, she said. Just dinner.

I'm still debating when her ancient Volkswagen Beetle pulls into her driveway, yellow as a damn sunflower, just like its owner. I watch as she struggles with grocery bags, dropping her keys twice before managing to get her front door open.

Before I can think better of it, I'm outside and crossing our yards.

"Need a hand?" I call, keeping my voice neutral.

She jumps, nearly dropping a bag. "Garrett! You scared me!"

"Sorry." I take two bags from her arms, ignoring how her fingers brush against mine. "Looked like you were about to lose the battle with gravity."

Her face lights up with that smile that always hits me. "My hero! I may have gone a little overboard shopping for tomorrow. I'm stress-buying groceries for my parents' visit."

I follow her into her kitchen, which looks like a paint store exploded in it. Yellow cabinets, blue countertops, mismatched everything. It's chaotic but somehow works, just like her.

"About that," I say, setting the bags down.

Sunny freezes, a box of pasta halfway to a cabinet. "About what?" Her voice has that forced casual tone that tells me she's bracing for rejection.

I clear my throat. "Your proposal."

"My... oh! The boyfriend thing." She turns to face me, twisting her hands together. "Look, I totally understand if you don't want to. It was a crazy idea and—"

"I'll do it."

Her mouth stays open, mid-sentence. "You... will?"

I don't know what the hell I'm doing. This is a mistake. I should be keeping my distance, not inserting myself further into her life. But the way her eyes widen with surprise and hope makes something in my chest race.

"Two conditions," I say, keeping my voice firm. "You keep the music down for two months like you promised. And we need a story—how we got together, how long we've been dating. Your parents won't believe it otherwise."

She launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

The scent of her strawberry shampoo fills my senses. Her body is warm against mine, curves pressing into me in ways that make it hard to remember why this is a bad idea. Instinctively, my hands come to rest at her waist.

Then she seems to realize what she's doing and jumps back, her cheeks flushed. "Sorry! I'm a hugger. Should've warned you."

"It's fine," I lie. It's not fine. Nothing about this situation is fine. I want to pull her back against me and find out if her mouth tastes as sweet as it looks.

Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets. "So, what's our story?"

She leans against the counter, eyes bright with excitement. "Well, obviously we met when I moved in. Maybe you helped me with something? Like, I don't know, fixing a leaky faucet?"

"I did fix your leaky faucet," I remind her. "In October. You brought me banana bread as thanks."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You remember that?"

I shrug, not willing to admit I remember every interaction we've had. "It was good banana bread."

"Okay, so we start with truth! You fixed my faucet, I thanked you with baking, and... we started talking more? Then maybe you asked me out for coffee?"

I can't help the short laugh that escapes me. "Your parents would never believe I asked you out for coffee."

She tilts her head. "No, you're right. You'd be more direct." She deepens her voice in what I assume is an impression of me. "'Sunny, I'm taking you to dinner. Be ready at seven.'"

"I don't sound like that."

"You absolutely do." She grins. "Okay, so you demanded I have dinner with you, I was charmed by your caveman approach, and we've been dating for... three months?"

Three months. Long enough to be serious but not so long that her parents would be offended they're just now hearing about me.

"Fine. Dinner, three months ago. What else would they expect me to know about you?" I ask, trying to keep this practical.

Sunny hops up to sit on the counter, legs swinging. The casual movement draws my eyes to her bare thighs below her shorts.

"Let's see... they'll expect you to know I'm allergic to strawberries. That I went to art school for two years before dropping out to freelance. That I hate scary movies but love true crime podcasts, which makes no sense but there it is." She counts these off on her fingers.

"You're not allergic to strawberries," I say before I can stop myself. "You were eating them on your porch last week."

Her eyes widen slightly. "You... noticed that?"

Shit. "Hard not to notice when you're sitting ten feet from my garage."

She nods, but I can tell she's wondering what else I've noticed. Too much, is the answer. Way too much.

"What about you?" she asks. "What would I know about you if we'd been dating three months?"

"Not much," I say honestly. "I don't talk about myself."

"Oh, come on, I'd know something." She kicks her feet gently against the cabinets. "Did you serve? How long? Do you have family? Basic boyfriend knowledge."

I sigh, leaning against the opposite counter. "Army, fifteen years, three tours in Afghanistan. Parents both dead. One sister in Colorado I talk to maybe twice a year."

Sunny's playful expression softens. "I'm sorry about your parents."

"It was a long time ago." I don't mention that my father died never having said he was proud of me, or that my mother followed him a year later from what I'm convinced was a broken heart. Some details aren't needed for this charade.

"So, what's our couple dynamic?" she asks, mercifully changing the subject. "I'm thinking you're the strong, silent type—that's not a stretch—and I gradually wore down your defenses with my irresistible charm?"

The accuracy of her assessment is unsettling. "Something like that."

She claps her hands together. "This is actually going to work! My parents will be so shocked that I'm dating my older, responsible neighbor that they'll forget to lecture me about my career choices."

"Glad I can be of service," I say dryly, but I'm finding it hard to maintain my usual gruffness with her looking so damn happy.

"Dinner's at six tomorrow," she says, hopping down from the counter. "Wear something nice but not too nice. Like you're trying to impress them but don't want to look like you're trying."

"I know how to dress for dinner, Sunny."

"Of course you do." She smiles up at me, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, "Thank you for doing this, Garrett. Really."

I should leave now. Say goodbye, walk out, and spend the next twenty-four hours remembering all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Instead, I find myself asking, "Need help with anything else? For tomorrow?"

Her surprise is evident, but she recovers quickly. "Actually, yes. I'm making lasagna, and I always mess up the layering. Would you mind being my taste-tester tonight when I do a practice run?"

"You're making a practice dinner?" This woman continues to baffle me.

"Of course! I can't risk messing up the actual dinner. Too much pressure." She says this like it's the most logical thing in the world. "Say yes, and I'll throw in a beer and promise not to ask too many personal questions."

I should say no. Go home. Maintain the distance I've cultivated.

"What time?" I hear myself ask instead.

"Seven? I need to get some work done first."

"I'll bring the beer," I say, already moving toward the door before I do something stupid like touch her again.

"It's a date!" she calls after me, then immediately backtracks. "I mean, not a date-date. A practice date. For our fake date. Tomorrow. Which is also not a real date."

I turn back to find her blushing, and something inside me—something I thought long dead—stirs to life.

"Seven," I confirm, and head back to my place before she can see what must be written all over my face.

I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, agreeing to this charade. Sunny deserves someone whole, someone who knows how to let people in. Not a broken ex-soldier with more baggage than the cargo hold of a C-17.

But for just a moment, one moment of weakness, I let myself imagine what it would be like if this were real. If I were actually the man lucky enough to be with Sunny Bloom.

It's a dangerous thought. One I'll need to bury deep before tomorrow.

Because the only thing worse than pretending to be with her would be letting her see just how much I wish it were true.