Page 3 of Fake Dating the Next-Door (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #6)

I am losing it. Completely, totally losing it.

The lasagna is in the oven, the salad is mixed, and I've changed outfits four times in the past hour. For a fake practice dinner for my fake boyfriend. What is wrong with me?

"It's just Garrett," I tell my reflection as I dab at the sweat forming along my hairline. "Grumpy, scowling Garrett who's doing you a favor."

Grumpy, scowling, unfairly attractive Garrett who somehow looks at me like he can see straight through to all my insecurities.

I tug at the hem of the sundress I finally settled on—a blue floral number that my mother once said brings out the warmth in my eyes. Is it too much for a practice dinner? Probably. But after spending all afternoon hunched over my laptop finishing a rush project, I wanted to feel pretty.

The timer on my phone shows ten minutes until seven. Ten minutes until Garrett arrives, and my palms are already sweating like I'm waiting for an actual date.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, pacing my small living room. "We're neighbors. We're planning a fake relationship. That's it."

Except when he was standing in my kitchen earlier today, filling the space with his presence, it didn't feel fake at all.

The way his eyes followed my movements, the brief moment when his hands rested on my waist after my impulsive hug.

.. there was something there. Something that made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with neighborly friendship.

Or maybe I'm just projecting because it's been approximately forever since I've had any romantic prospects. Cedar Falls isn't exactly a hotbed of eligible bachelors for twenty-something freelance designers.

Not that I'm looking at Garrett that way. He made it pretty clear he thinks I'm a kid. Fifteen years younger and "running out of time when I'm barely getting started," as I so tactlessly put it. I cringe remembering how his eyebrow had raised at that comment.

I check my phone again. Seven minutes.

The lasagna smells amazing, at least. I followed my grandmother's recipe to the letter, determined not to mess up the layers this time. Tomorrow has to be perfect. My parents already think my life is a mess; I can't serve them a messy dinner on top of everything else.

Anxiety bubbles in my chest as I think about tomorrow. Will they believe Garrett is my boyfriend? Will they approve? Do I even want them to approve? The whole point is to shock them enough that they stop nagging me about finding someone, not to actually get their blessing.

But a small, pathetic part of me still craves their approval, even as I rebel against their expectations.

I jump at the sound of a knock on my door—firm, decisive. Garrett's knock.

"Coming!" I call, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched. I check the mirror one last time, fluff my curls, and take a deep breath.

It's just dinner. With my neighbor. Who I see almost every day. Who agreed to pretend to be my boyfriend.

Totally normal.

I open the door to find Garrett standing there with a six-pack of craft beer in one hand and—surprisingly—a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. He's dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt the same steel blue as his eyes, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.

"H-hi," My voice trembles.

"Hi." His eyes do a quick sweep of my appearance, lingering just a moment too long to be casual. "You look... nice."

Is that surprise in his voice? The thought that Garrett might not have realized I own anything other than leggings and oversized t-shirts makes me feel both self-conscious and weirdly pleased.

"Thanks. So do you." I step back to let him in. "Are those for me?" I gesture to the wildflowers.

He holds them out somewhat stiffly. "Thought it would be more convincing. For tomorrow."

"Right. For tomorrow." I take the flowers, "That's really thoughtful, thank you."

An awkward silence falls between us as I search for a vase. I can feel him watching me, and it makes me even more nervous, my movements becoming clumsy as I fill a mason jar with water.

"Dinner smells good," he says finally.

"Thanks! It's my grandmother's recipe. The secret is using both ricotta and cottage cheese in the filling." I'm babbling. Why am I babbling? "I mean, not that it's a secret anymore since I just told you, but—"

"Sunny." His voice is calm, steady. "Breathe."

I inhale deeply, setting the makeshift vase of wildflowers on the table. "Sorry. I get chatty when I'm nervous."

"Why are you nervous?"

Good question. "I don't know. This whole thing is weird, right? Practicing to pretend to be a couple?"

Garrett opens two beers, handing one to me. "A little weird," he admits, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly. "But practical."

"Practical," I echo, taking a sip of beer. "That's very you."

"What does that mean?" There's no defensiveness in his tone, just curiosity.

I gesture vaguely at him. "You know. Organized. Logical. Everything in its place." I peek around him toward the window where I can just see the edge of his meticulously maintained yard. "I bet you alphabetize your spices."

"I do not alphabetize my spices," he says, then pauses. "They're organized by frequency of use."

A laugh bubbles out of me, and something in his expression softens at the sound.

"What about you?" he asks, leaning against my counter in a way that makes him look impossibly more attractive. "How are your spices organized?"

"Bold of you to assume they're organized at all." I check the oven timer. "Five more minutes on the lasagna. Want to sit?"

We move to my small dining table, which I've actually cleared of work materials for once. The wildflowers make a cheerful centerpiece, their casual beauty somehow perfect for this not-quite-date.

"So," I say, taking another sip of beer for courage. "Tell me something about yourself that a girlfriend of three months would know. Something not in your military resume."

Garrett seems to consider this, rolling his beer bottle between his palms. "I have trouble sleeping," he says finally. "Nightmares, sometimes. From my last tour."

The admission surprises me. It's more personal than I expected. "Is that why you're always up so early?"

He nods. "Hard to stay asleep past 5 AM when you're trained to function on four hours for years. The dreams don't help."

I resist the urge to reach for his hand. "I'm sorry. That must be hard."

"It is what it is." He shrugs, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Your turn. Something I should know about you."

I consider what to share… Something true but not too revealing. "I'm terrified of disappointing people," I admit. "Especially my parents. I act like I don't care what they think, but... I do. Too much, probably."

Garrett's eyes meet mine, and there's understanding there that makes my chest tighten. "What do you think would disappoint them more. You being single or you dating someone like me?"

The question catches me off guard. "Someone like you?"

"Older. Military. Not exactly the successful businessman type I'm guessing they want for their daughter."

I shake my head. "They'd actually love that you were military.

My dad's brother served. And they're so desperate for me to settle down they'd probably be thrilled with anyone who seems stable and responsible.

" I laugh lightly. "The age gap might raise eyebrows, but they'll be too busy being grateful I'm not dating another 'starving artist' to complain. "

"Another?" His eyebrow raises.

"My college boyfriend was a sculptor. Very passionate about his art, less passionate about things like paying rent or remembering my birthday." I wave dismissively. "Ancient history."

"He sounds like an idiot," Garrett says, his voice suddenly hard.

The timer on the oven beeps, saving me from having to respond to the unexpected intensity in his tone. I jump up, grateful for the distraction.

"Moment of truth!" I announce, pulling oven mitts shaped like lobster claws from a drawer. They were an impulse buy that make me smile every time I use them.

Garrett stares at them, looking torn between amusement and confusion. "Those are..."

"Practical and fashionable," I finish for him, grinning as I slide them on. "Don't be jealous you don't have lobster hands."

I could swear I see him fighting a smile as I open the oven and carefully extract the lasagna. The cheese is bubbling, golden brown on top, and it smells heavenly.

"It looks perfect," I breathe, setting it on the stovetop. "I've never managed to get the layers right before. This is a good omen for tomorrow!"

"I'm sure your parents would love you even if you served them a terrible lasagna," Garrett says, coming to stand beside me.

The comment is so unexpectedly gentle that I look up at him in surprise. He's closer than I realized, close enough that I can smell his soap—something clean and woodsy—and see the faint scar that runs along his jawline.

"That's..." I swallow hard. "That's a nice thing to say."

His eyes hold mine for a long moment. "I can be nice. Sometimes."

The air between us feels charged, and I suddenly can't remember what we were talking about. All I can focus on is how his proximity makes my heart race, how different he looks when his expression softens like this.

I clear my throat, stepping back. "We should let it cool for a few minutes before cutting into it."

Garrett nods, moving back to give me space. "Need help with anything else?"

"You could grab the salad from the fridge?" I suggest, grateful for something to do with my hands. I reach for plates, watching him moving around my kitchen.

As we settle in to eat, I can't help but think how strangely comfortable this feels—having Garrett in my space, sharing a meal I made. Almost like we've done this before, like it's a regular occurrence rather than an elaborate practice for a deception.

"This is good," he says after taking his first bite of lasagna. "Really good."

Pride blooms in my chest at the genuine approval in his voice. "Thanks. I stress-bake, but I stress-cook too, sometimes."

"You must be stressed a lot," he observes. "You're always bringing me baked goods."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "Well, freelancing isn't exactly stable. Feast or famine, you know? Either I have so many projects I'm pulling all-nighters, or I'm panicking about paying rent."

"Is that why you were up until 4 AM the other night?" he asks, surprising me again with how much he notices.

"Yeah, rush job for a client in California. Double my usual rate for the turnaround time. Sorry if my lights bothered you."

"They didn't," he says quickly. Then, more quietly: "I was already awake."

The nightmares, I realize. He was already up because of the nightmares.

"Well," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "maybe next time we can both be insomniacs together. I make great midnight nachos."

"I'll keep that in mind."

We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I find myself noticing a few things about him when he's not looking.

The way his broad hands handle his silverware with delicacy.

The slight furrow between his brows that never fully disappears, even when he's relaxed.

The way his shoulders remain slightly tensed, as if he's always ready to react to a threat.

What must it be like to live in his head? To carry whatever memories keep him up at night?

"So," I say as we finish eating, "should we practice any... couple stuff? For tomorrow?" My voice sounds strange even to my own ears, too high and breathless.

Garrett sets down his fork. "What kind of 'couple stuff'?"

"I don't know." I fiddle with my napkin. "Terms of endearment? Physical contact? We should probably seem comfortable with each other if we've been dating for three months."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Maybe just... basic stuff? Hand holding? A casual arm around the shoulders?" I'm mortified to feel myself blushing. "Nothing weird, obviously."

He reaches across the table, his hand open, palm up. "Give me your hand."