Page 5 of Fake Dating the Next-Door (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #6)

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure Garrett can feel it through our joined hands. I take one last deep breath, plaster on my brightest smile, and open the door.

"Mom! Dad!" I exclaim with what I hope passes for natural enthusiasm.

My parents stand on the porch, looking exactly as they always do.

My father in pressed khakis and a button-down, my mother in a tasteful blouse and slacks, both with identical expressions of polite assessment.

It's the look I've been on the receiving end of my entire life, a silent evaluation that inevitably finds me lacking.

And we're off to a fantastic start.

"Thanks, Mom." I resist the urge to touch my arranged curls. "Come in, please."

My father steps in behind her, giving me a brief hug. "The place looks... colorful," he says, eyeing my yellow walls with the same expression he'd use for a modern art exhibit he doesn't understand but feels obligated to appreciate.

Then, as if just noticing the large man standing beside me, both my parents' gazes shift to Garrett. My mother's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline, while my father's expression changes into something more guarded.

"Mom, Dad, this is Garrett Stone," I say, squeezing his hand probably harder than necessary. "My boyfriend."

The silence that follows is exactly what I was hoping for—complete, stunned shock.

My mother recovers first. "Your... boyfriend? Well! This is certainly a surprise. You didn't mention you were seeing anyone, Sunshine."

"It's still relatively new," I explain, leaning slightly against Garrett's solid frame. "We wanted to be sure before making any announcements."

"Three months isn't that new," Garrett says, his deep voice rumbling beside me. He extends his free hand to my father. "Mr. Bloom. Nice to meet you."

My father shakes his hand, and I can see him noting Garrett's firm grip and direct gaze. "Three months, hmm? And you live...?"

"Next door," Garrett supplies. "I've owned my place for a while."

"Garrett's ex-military," I add, knowing this will score points with my dad.

Sure enough, my father's expression softens slightly. "Which branch?"

"Army. Fifteen years, three tours in Afghanistan."

"My brother was Navy," Dad says, a new note of respect in his voice.

"I gathered as much from the USS Enterprise model in Sunny's childhood photos," Garrett replies smoothly.

I blink in surprise. I'd shown him those photos? No, I hadn't, but he must have noticed them on the bookshelf during dinner last night. The man doesn't miss a detail.

My mother is circling Garrett like he's an interesting specimen she's trying to classify. "And what do you do now, Garrett?"

"Custom furniture restoration, mainly. Some construction and renovation work when the projects interest me."

I can practically see my mother mentally adjusting whatever narrative she'd been crafting. Garrett doesn't fit neatly into any of the boxes she expected.

"How fascinating," she says, in that tone that could either be genuine interest or polite dismissal.

"Mom," I interject, "let's get you both something to drink before the interrogation continues, shall we? Garrett brought a lovely red wine."

"That would be wonderful, dear." She follows me toward the kitchen, while my father continues questioning Garrett about his military service.

In the kitchen, my mother immediately leans in close. "Sunshine," she whispers urgently, "he's at least fifteen years older than you!"

"And so what? Age is just a number."

"But he's so... serious. And those scars..." She glances back toward the living room where Garrett is showing my father something on his phone, probably military photos. "He doesn't seem like your usual type at all."

I busy myself opening the wine, choosing my words. "Maybe that's a good thing, considering how my previous relationships turned out."

"Well, yes, but—"

"Mom," I cut her off gently, handing her a glass of wine. "Garrett is kind, responsible, and he treats me well. Isn't that what you and Dad always wanted for me?"

She takes a sip, studying me over the rim of her glass. "Are you happy, Sunshine? That's all we've ever wanted."

The question catches me off guard. In our rehearsals, I'd prepared for skepticism, judgment, even disapproval, but not this simple, direct inquiry about my happiness.

Am I happy? The strange thing is, standing in my kitchen, playing this charade with Garrett, I realize I am. Happier than I've been in a long time, actually.

"Yes," I say, and I'm surprised by how much I mean it. "I am."

Something in my voice must convince her, because her expression softens. "Well then. That's what matters." She pats my cheek. "Though I still think your father is going to have questions. Many, many questions."

"I'm sure Garrett can handle it," I say, more confidently than I feel.

When we return to the living room, my father and Garrett are engaged in what appears to be a surprisingly comfortable conversation about vintage Jeeps. My father, who restores classic cars as a hobby, is actually smiling.

"Dinner's almost ready," I announce. "Dad, can you help me set the table?"

As my father follows me to the dining area, I catch Garrett and my mother exchanging what can only be described as wary glances, like two cats assessing each other's territory.

"He seems... decent," my father says quietly as we arrange plates and silverware. "Military background explains a lot. How did you two actually get together? You're not exactly the type to go for the strong, silent routine."

I launch into our practiced story about the leaky faucet and banana bread, trying to keep my voice casual. "He asked me to dinner, and I said yes. We just... clicked."

My father makes a noncommittal sound. "And does he support your, ah, graphic design work?"

The slight hesitation before "graphic design" doesn't escape me. My parents have never quite accepted that my freelance career is legitimate, always referring to it as if it's a phase I'm going through before getting a "real job."

"Actually, he does," I say firmly. "Garrett understands the value of doing work you're passionate about."

As if on cue, Garrett's voice carries from the living room: "Sunny's latest website design increased her client's conversion rate by thirty percent. She's incredibly talented."

I nearly drop the fork I'm holding. We never discussed my work in our preparation. That specific project was something I'd mentioned in passing over the fence weeks ago, never expecting him to remember it.

My father looks impressed despite himself. "Well. That's good to hear."

The timer beeps from the kitchen, saving me from further conversation. "That's the lasagna," I announce, perhaps too enthusiastically. "Let's eat!"

Dinner itself goes surprisingly smoothly.

The lasagna is perfect. Layers intact, cheese browned just right.

Garrett sits beside me, occasionally placing his hand over mine in a gesture that feels both protective and possessive.

It's all for show, I remind myself, even as warmth spreads through me each time he touches me.

"So, Garrett," my mother says as we're finishing the main course, "Sunny tells us you live next door. What did you think when she moved in? She can be quite... exuberant."

I tense, waiting for him to mention my loud music or late-night work sessions.

Garrett's lips curve in what might almost be a smile. "I thought the neighborhood could use some color," he says. "Sunny brought that in spades."

"He complained about my music constantly," I add, trying to keep things honest and light. "Still does."

"Not constantly," Garrett corrects, his hand finding mine under the table. "Just when it's past midnight and I can feel the bass through the walls."

My parents exchange a look I can't quite interpret.

"How did you end up in Cedar Falls, Garrett?" my father asks. "Not exactly a military town."

"After my discharge, I wanted somewhere quiet. My rehab therapist was based here, so it made sense." His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand as he speaks, and I wonder if he's even aware he's doing it.

"Rehab?" my mother asks, concern creasing her brow.

"Shoulder injury," Garrett explains briefly. "It's fine now."

I squeeze his hand, knowing there's more to that story than he's sharing. We hadn't discussed his injury in our preparation, and I find myself genuinely curious about what happened.

The conversation shifts to safer topics.

My parents' drive up from Portland, my father's latest car restoration project, my mother's book club.

Throughout it all, Garrett plays his part perfectly, asking thoughtful questions and offering just enough about himself to seem engaged without revealing too much.

What surprises me most is how natural it feels. The way he refills my water glass without asking. How he seems to sense when I'm feeling tense and diverts the conversation. The protective arm he drapes across the back of my chair when my mother begins subtly probing about my financial stability.

If I didn't know better, I'd think we really were a couple, comfortable in each other's space, attuned to each other's needs.

"Sunshine always had such creative friends," my mother says as I serve dessert—the chocolate cake I'd stress-baked last night. "I admit I was worried when she dropped out of college to pursue this freelance... adventure. But it seems she's finding her footing now."

I tense at the backhanded compliment. "Mom, I've been supporting myself entirely for three years now. I'd say I found my footing a while ago."

"Of course, dear," she says dismissively. "I just meant it's nice to see you settling down a bit. Finding some stability."

I feel Garrett's hand on my knee under the table, a steadying pressure.

"Sunny's one of the hardest working people I know," he says, his voice measured but firm. "She built her business from nothing, and she's successful because she's talented and dedicated. That's not 'finding her footing', that's impressive by any standard."

The table falls silent. My mother looks taken aback, my father assessing. I'm frozen, fork halfway to my mouth, stunned by Garrett's defense.

"Well," my mother finally says, "I suppose you're right. We just worry, that's all. It's what parents do."

"I understand that," Garrett says, his tone softening slightly. "But maybe trust that you raised someone capable of making good choices."

My father clears his throat. "Fair point," he concedes, surprising me. "The cake is excellent, by the way, Sunshine."