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

I've overstepped. I can see it in the way Sunny's parents exchange glances, in the slight stiffening of her posture beside me. This isn't my place. These aren't my battles to fight.

But watching her mother casually dismiss years of Sunny's hard work sparked something protective in me that I couldn't quite tamp down.

"Any interesting projects currently?" Mr. Bloom asks, breaking the awkward silence as he takes another bite of cake

"Criminal," Mr. Bloom says with feeling, and I find myself warming to him slightly. He may not fully understand his daughter, but there's genuine care beneath his gruff exterior.

"Exactly," I agree. "The wood underneath is in excellent condition, though. Just needs patience to bring it back."

"Like most worthwhile things," Mrs. Bloom interjects, her gaze flicking between Sunny and me.

Sunny's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing in what feels like gratitude or solidarity. I return the pressure, trying not to focus on how natural this contact has begun to feel.

"Do you have photos?" Mr. Bloom asks, genuine interest in his voice.

I pull out my phone, finding the before pictures of the dresser. As I show them to Sunny's father, I'm aware of Mrs. Bloom watching me closely, her assessment almost tactical in its precision.

"Garrett was in Special Forces, Mom," Sunny says suddenly. "Isn't that impressive?"

I shoot her a questioning look. We never discussed my specific military role, and I certainly never mentioned Special Forces.

"Were you really?" Mrs. Bloom asks, her eyebrows raised.

"Yes," I admit, wondering how Sunny knew. "Though it's not something I usually advertise."

"How fascinating," Mrs. Bloom says, leaning forward. "That must have been challenging work."

"It was a job," I say simply, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I served with good people."

Sunny's hand tightens on mine, and I realize she's thrown me this conversational lifeline intentionally—distracting her mother from our earlier tension by giving her something more intriguing to focus on.

Smart.

"Did you always want to serve?" Mr. Bloom asks, handing my phone back.

"My father was military," I explain. "It seemed like the natural path."

"And now you make beautiful things instead of..." Mrs. Bloom trails off delicately.

"Instead of destroying them?" I finish for her. "Yes. I find it balances the scales a bit."

Something shifts in Mrs. Bloom's expression—a softening, a reassessment. "I can understand that."

Sunny rises suddenly. "Coffee, anyone? I have decaf and regular."

"Decaf for me, dear," her mother says. "Your father and I should probably get back to our hotel soon. It's been a long day of driving."

"I'll help," I offer, following Sunny to the kitchen.

Once we're alone, she turns to me, "Thank you," she whispers. "For what you said earlier. About my work."

"I meant it," I say simply, because it's true. I've watched her work herself to exhaustion too many times to count, seen the pride she takes in each finished project.

She steps closer, resting her hand lightly on my chest. For a moment, I think she might hug me again, but instead she just looks up at me, those brown eyes wide and serious.

"I know you did," she says softly. "That's what makes it mean something."

The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. This is no longer just a performance for her parents' benefit. We're standing in her kitchen, out of sight, and yet the connection between us feels more real than anything I've experienced in years.

I should step back. Remind us both of the boundaries, of the temporary nature of this arrangement.

Instead, my hand moves of its own accord to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "You don't need me or anyone else to validate your success, Sunny."

Her breath catches, and for one dangerous moment, I consider lowering my head to hers, tasting the smile that's slowly spreading across her face.

The coffee maker beeps, shattering the moment.

Sunny jumps back slightly, turning to grab mugs from the cabinet. "Right! Coffee. That's what we came in here for."

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "I'll get the cream and sugar."

We work together, moving around each other in the small kitchen with surprising ease. It feels practiced, regular, like we've done this a hundred times before.

"So," she says as she arranges cookies on a plate, keeping her voice low. "How do you think it's going?"

"Your father likes me. Your mother is reserving judgment but leaning positive."

She looks up, surprised. "Really? That's your assessment?"

I nod. "Your father started showing me pictures of his restored Mustang. That's practically a marriage proposal in dad terms."

Sunny's laugh is bright and sudden. "You're not wrong. And my mom?"

"She's protective of you," I say. "As she should be. But I think she's decided I'm not an immediate threat to your happiness."

"High praise indeed." Sunny balances the cookie plate on top of her mug. "Ready to head back in there?"

"After you."

As we rejoin her parents in the dining room, I can't help but notice how Mr. Bloom's eyes track our movements, assessing our comfort with each other.

I place my hand at the small of Sunny's back as she sets down the cookies, and her father nods slightly to himself, apparently satisfied by what he sees.

"These look wonderful, Sunshine," Mrs. Bloom says, selecting a cookie. "You always did have a talent for baking. Remember when you wanted to open that cupcake shop?"

"That was in high school, Mom," Sunny says with a slight edge to her voice.

"Still, you made the most beautiful designs. Your attention to detail would have made you an excellent accountant, you know."

I feel Sunny tense beside me. Before she can respond, I interject smoothly, "That same eye for detail makes her an exceptional designer. Her latest logo for that outdoor company perfectly captured the brand's essence. Very technically impressive."

Mrs. Bloom blinks, then nods slowly. "I suppose that's true. We just always hoped she'd choose something more... stable."

"The traditional career path isn't for everyone," I say mildly, sipping my coffee. "Some of us do better charting our own course."

"Like you?" Mr. Bloom asks.

"Like Sunny," I correct him. "I followed a preset path for fifteen years. It took a forced medical retirement for me to figure out what I actually wanted to do with my life. Sunny was smart enough to pursue her passion from the start."

The look Sunny gives me is worth whatever awkwardness this conversation might create—pure gratitude mingled with something warmer, more intimate.

Mrs. Bloom glances at me over her coffee cup. "You seem to think very highly of our daughter, Garrett."

"I do," I say simply, meeting her gaze.

"And your intentions toward her are...?" She leaves the question hanging, a maternal minefield I now have to navigate.

Sunny makes a strangled sound beside me. "Mom! Seriously?"

"It's a fair question, Sunshine," her father interjects. "You've sprung this relationship on us quite suddenly."

I feel Sunny's panic like a tangible thing, her body tensing beside mine. This is the moment our charade could fall apart—a direct question about intentions, about the future.

I place my hand over hers on the table, my thumb tracing small circles on her wrist where I can feel her pulse racing.

"My intentions," I start, choosing each word with precision, "are to support Sunny in whatever she chooses to do. To be there when she needs me and give her space when she doesn't. To make her happy, if I can."

It's not a lie. Not entirely. In this moment, I realize I would do all those things if given the chance, if this was real instead of pretend.

The room falls silent. Sunny's hand trembles slightly beneath mine.

Finally, Mr. Bloom clears his throat. "Well. That's a good answer."

Mrs. Bloom dabs at the corner of her eye with a napkin. "It certainly is."

Sunny's grip on my hand is almost painful now, but I don't pull away. Instead, I meet her gaze, finding her eyes wide and watery.

"Sorry," she says, her voice slightly unsteady. "I just... I didn't expect..."

"I know," I say quietly, just for her. "It's okay."

Suddenly, Mrs. Bloom's chair scrapes back, breaking the spell.

"Well, this has been lovely, Sunshine, but we should be heading back to our hotel. It's getting late, and your father and I want to get an early start tomorrow."

As Sunny's parents gather their things and move toward the door, I hang back slightly, giving her space for private goodbyes. I can see the tension on her shoulders as she hugs her mother, the careful way she responds to whatever Mrs. Bloom is whispering in her ear.

Mr. Bloom approaches me while the women are talking, extending his hand. "Take care of her," he says simply. "She acts tough, but she feels everything deeply."

"I know," I say, because I do. I've watched Sunny through my window, seen her dance with joy when she lands a new client and cry when she thinks no one is looking after a difficult call with her parents.

"Good man," he says, clapping me on the shoulder before moving to join his wife at the door.

Final hugs are exchanged, promises made to call soon, to visit again. Then Sunny's parents are stepping onto the porch, turning for one last wave before heading to their car.

And suddenly I remember—the goodbye kiss. The one Sunny mentioned during our practice dinner, the final touch to make our charade convincing.

As if reading my thoughts, Sunny turns to me, a question in her eyes. We're still visible from the driveway, her parents watching as they get into their car.

Without overthinking it, I step closer, sliding one hand down her back. "For authenticity," I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear.

She nods, her gaze dropping briefly to my mouth.

I lean down, intending to keep it brief, a light peck, nothing more. But as my lips touch hers, something changes. Her mouth is soft, yielding, her body melting against mine with a sigh that I feel rather than hear.

What should have been a quick goodbye becomes something else entirely. My hand slides from her back to her waist, drawing her closer as her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt.

It lasts only seconds, but when I pull back, we're both breathing harder than we should be for such a brief kiss.

"They're gone," Sunny whispers, her eyes still closed.

I glance over her shoulder to see the taillights of her parents' car disappearing down the street.

"So they are," I agree, not stepping away even though the audience for our performance has departed.

Sunny's eyes flutter open, confusion and something warmer swirling in their depths. "Garrett..."

The spell breaks. I step back, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her again.

"Well," I say, my voice rougher than I'd like, "I think they bought it."