Page 4 of Fake Dating the Next-Door (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #6)

"Give me your hand."

The words come out more commanding than I intended, and for a second I think I've crossed a line. But Sunny doesn't hesitate. She places her small hand in mine, her eyes wide and curious.

Her skin is soft against my rugged palm. Warm. I can feel her pulse jumping at her wrist, quick as a hummingbird's wings. Or maybe that's my own heart hammering away.

"If we've been dating three months," I say, keeping my voice steady, "we'd be comfortable with casual contact." I run my thumb across her knuckles, a gesture that feels both innocent and intimate at the same time. "Like this."

Sunny nods, her cheeks flushed pink. "Right. Casual."

There's nothing casual about the way my body is responding to this simple touch. I've spent months keeping my distance, and now that I've allowed myself to breach that private space, it feels like stepping too close to a fire. Dangerous. Irresistible.

"What else?" she asks, her voice quieter now.

I should stop this. Draw a line. Remember that this is just preparation for a deception, not something real.

Instead, I say, "Stand up."

She does, and I rise with her, still holding her hand. We're standing closer now, the small dining space forcing proximity. I can smell her light and floral perfume and see the pulse beating at the base of her throat.

"If you were my girlfriend," I say, the words feeling strange in my mouth, "I'd probably do this." I place my free hand lightly on her waist, careful to keep the touch appropriate.

Sunny's breath catches audibly. "For authenticity," she agrees, her eyes not quite meeting mine.

"For authenticity," I repeat.

My hand spans nearly half her waist. She's so small compared to me, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder. Something protective stirs in my chest—a feeling I've tried to ignore since she moved in next door.

"And maybe—" She hesitates. "Maybe we should practice, um, how we look at each other? My mom is super perceptive about that kind of thing."

"How should we look at each other?" My voice has dropped lower without my permission.

"Like we're... you know. Together." Her eyes finally meet mine, wide and uncertain. "Like we care about each other."

That shouldn't be hard. Not when I'm already fighting the urge to pull her closer, to cross boundaries I have no right to cross.

"Like this?" I ask, letting some of what I'm feeling show in my expression. Not everything—she'd run screaming if she saw everything—but enough. Enough to be convincing.

Something shifts in her face, surprise followed by something softer. "Yeah," she whispers. "Just like that."

We're standing too close now, my hand still on her waist, hers resting lightly on my chest. I can feel her warmth through my shirt, can count every freckle scattered across the bridge of her nose.

This is a mistake. A massive, dangerous mistake.

I clear my throat and step back, releasing her. "That should be convincing enough."

Sunny blinks rapidly, as if coming out of a daze. "Right. Yes. Totally convincing." She tucks a curl behind her ear, her movements slightly flustered. "Um, there's one more thing."

"What's that?" I ask, grateful for the distance I've put between us.

"Would you be okay with... a goodbye kiss? When my parents are leaving?" The words tumble out quickly. "Nothing major, just a quick peck. For show."

My entire body goes still. Kiss Sunny. The thought has crossed my mind more times than I'd ever admit, but always as a fantasy I'd never act on. And now she's suggesting it herself.

"If you think it's necessary," I manage to say, my voice neutral.

"It would help sell it," she says, not quite looking at me. "But only if you're comfortable."

Comfortable is the last thing I am right now. "I'll manage."

I glance at my watch, looking for an escape. "It's getting late. I should probably head back."

"Oh! Right, of course." Is that disappointment in her voice? "Thank you for being my guinea pig. The lasagna passed the test, right?"

"Definitely." I help her clear the plates, our movements strangely comfortable in her small kitchen. "What time should I come over tomorrow?"

"My parents are arriving at six, so maybe 5:30? That way we can get our story straight one more time before they show up."

I nod, already calculating how many hours I need to spend in my garage tomorrow to work off this nervous energy. "5:30 it is."

At the door, we face each other again, uncertain. This isn't a real date. There's no goodnight kiss, no promise of seeing each other again soon. Except we will see each other tomorrow, playing parts in a charade that's starting to feel less like pretend with every passing minute.

"Thank you for doing this," Sunny says, her smile genuine. "I know it's weird and probably the last thing you want to be doing."

She's wrong about that. The last thing I want to be doing is walking away from her right now.

"It's fine," I say, because I can't say what I'm really thinking. "Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Garrett."

"Goodnight, Sunny."

I force myself to turn and walk down her porch steps, feeling her eyes on my back as I cross the yard to my place. The night air is cool against my face, helping to clear my head.

What the hell am I doing?

Back in my house, I head straight for the shower, turning the water to cold. I need to get my head straight. Remember the boundaries. Remember why getting involved with anyone, especially someone like Sunny, is a bad idea.

She's young. Optimistic. Full of life and possibility. I'm... not. I've seen too much, lost too much. The nightmares that wake me most nights are just the surface of what's broken inside me.

But none of those rational thoughts stop me from remembering how perfectly her hand fit in mine, or how her eyes widened when I touched her waist.

I change into sweats and a t-shirt, but sleep feels impossible right now. Instead, I head to the garage, flipping on the lights and reaching for the project I abandoned earlier today—the antique dresser I've been restoring.

Working with my hands helps. The repetitive motions of sanding, the focus required for detailed work, the tangible progress. All of it quiets the noise in my head. By midnight, I've finished prepping the dresser for staining and my thoughts are marginally more ordered.

I need rules for tomorrow. Boundaries.

No unnecessary touching. Keep the charade convincing but minimal. Remember that it's all temporary—one dinner, then back to being neighbors.

But as I finally head to bed, the image that follows me into sleep isn't of tomorrow's dinner or of boundaries I need to maintain. It's of Sunny, looking up at me with those bright brown eyes, asking me to kiss her goodbye.

Even if it is just for show.

Next Morning

Morning comes too quickly after a restless night. I'm up before dawn as usual. I make coffee and step onto my back porch, watching the sky lighten gradually. Sunny's house is dark. She won't be up for hours yet. One of the many differences between us.

The day stretches ahead, hours to fill before I need to be next door, playing a part I'm increasingly concerned about. I decide to take a long run, pushing myself harder than usual, as if I can outpace my thoughts.

It doesn't work.

By mid-afternoon, I've exhausted all my usual distractions. The dresser is stained and drying. My house is already clean. I've even sharpened every knife in my kitchen, a task I usually save for Sunday mornings.

At 4:00, I finally admit to myself that I'm anxious. Not about meeting Sunny's parents. I've faced far more intimidating situations than dinner with civilians. I'm anxious about maintaining the facade, about keeping the appropriate distance when every instinct is telling me to do the opposite.

I shower and dress in dark jeans and a navy button-down that my sister sent for Christmas last year, still with the tags on until today. I even trim my beard, which has grown more salt-and-pepper than I'd like to admit.

At precisely 5:30, I cross the yard to Sunny's porch, a bottle of decent red wine in hand.

She opens the door before I can knock, looking like she's been watching for me. Her hair is pulled back in some kind of twisty arrangement, a few curls escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a green dress that brings out the gold flecks in her brown eyes.

"You're exactly on time," she says, smiling nervously. "Very on-brand for you."

"Military precision," I say, stepping inside. Her house smells amazing—garlic, tomatoes, and something baking.

"Is that for dinner?" she asks, nodding at the wine.

"Unless you have something else planned."

"No, it's perfect." She takes the bottle, "Thank you."

I follow her to the kitchen, where every surface is covered with food preparation. The lasagna sits ready to go into the oven. A salad is partially assembled. Something sweet is cooling on a rack—cookies or brownies, I can't tell from here.

"Can I help with anything?" I offer, seeing the barely contained panic in her movements.

"Could you finish the salad? I need to change. Again." She looks down at herself. "I've already gone through three outfits and I'm still not sure about this one."

"You look beautiful," I say before I can stop myself. It's the truth, but not something I should be saying out loud.

Sunny freezes, her eyes widening slightly. "I... thank you."

We stand there looking at each other until the timer on her phone beeps, breaking the moment.

"That's my ten-minute warning," she says, her voice higher than usual. "They're always exactly on time. Very on-brand for them, too."

"Go change if you need to," I tell her. "I'll handle the salad."

She nods and disappears down the hallway. I turn to the half-assembled salad, grateful for the task. The kitchen is organized chaos, much like Sunny herself. Ingredients everywhere, but somehow she knows where everything is.

I hear her muttering to herself down the hall, the sound of drawers opening and closing rapidly. The nervousness in her voice tugs at something in my chest. She's genuinely anxious about this dinner, about her parents' approval.

I finish the salad and pour myself a glass of water, trying to settle my own nerves. This isn't combat. It's just dinner. With the parents of a woman I'm pretending to date but am increasingly drawn to in ways I shouldn't be.

Simple.

Sunny reappears in a different dress. This one a deep blue that makes her skin glow. Her hair is the same, but she's added earrings that catch the light when she moves.

"Better?" she asks, doing a small spin.

"You looked fine before," I say honestly. "But yes, that's nice too."

She takes a deep breath, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress. "Okay. Quick review. We've been dating three months. You fixed my faucet, I thanked you with banana bread, and you asked me to dinner. We've been together ever since."

"You're overthinking this," I tell her, moving closer. I place my hands on her shoulders, feeling how tense she is. "Just follow my lead. We'll be fine."

She looks up at me, "What if they don't believe us?"

"They will." I squeeze her shoulders gently. "Trust me."

The doorbell rings, and Sunny jumps like she's been shocked. "They're here," she whispers unnecessarily.

I drop my hands from her shoulders and offer one to her instead. "Ready?"

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and places her hand in mine. "Ready."

As we walk to the door together, her small hand warm in mine, I have the distinct feeling that I'm stepping into something I won't be able to easily walk away from. This charade, this pretense… It's already blurring lines I thought were firmly drawn.

But when Sunny looks back at me, gratitude and nervousness in her eyes, I know it's too late to back out now.

I'm all in, for better or worse.