Page 4 of Faking it with my Off Limits Neighbor

When I wake, it’s still dark, and reaching across to the bedside table, I check the bright digits on my phone. Four a.m. Darn it. I’m still on Paris time. It’s going to take me a couple of days to adjust, given that Paris is seven hours ahead of here.

I drop my head back on the pillow and stare into the darkness. I’m not going to get any more sleep now, even if I try and force it. In fact, that will only frustrate me more. I could’ve done with more rest, but no doubt, the jet lag will hit me later. What I need now is coffee.

With the steaming mug in hand, I wander into the living room. Dropping into a chair, I sit there and enjoy my caffeine fix. My mind wanders through all the things I need to put in place for my plan to work. After getting a surveyor to look it over thoroughly, I’ve already bought the perfect place for my new business. It’s rundown and needs a lot of work, but for my first venture, it’ll do just fine.

It was—once upon a time, in its younger years—a thriving diner, so it has all the kitchen facilities I need. That saves me some cash, at least. I’ve been saving every penny I could for five full years, so I’ve got the capital. But as one very successful chef imparted to me some time ago, “If you don’t need to spend it, then don’t.” Solid advice.

With my coffee finished, I look at the stack of boxes in front of me. My living room looks like an Amazon warehouse. I left for Paris with nothing but a suitcase, and I came back in pretty much the same way. Though I did bring back a pile of notebooks full of ideas and recipes.

Between online shopping and some things Mom found duplicates of in her house, I’ll have enough to make this place look more like a home. I take a deep breath and push myself off the chair.

All right, then. Let’s go.

A couple of hours have passed, and I’ve managed to get most of the living room unpacked. The work mainly consisted of putting flat-pack furniture together and adding in those touches that make it look more like a home, rather than a place I’m squatting in. It could do with something more, but I’ll worry about that later.

I wander into the kitchen. It’s a huge room with lots of counter space for my experimental cooking. There’s also a large dining area for a table and chairs, which I still need to get.

I’m washing my cup at the sink when I catch a movement. The kitchen window is positioned on the side of the house and faces the house next door. Through the fence, I see long, flowing black hair swaying, and as I look more intently, I watch as the woman through the window appears to be dancing.

I check my watch. It’s six-thirty in the morning.

Who dances at six-thirty in the morning?

She looks to be in good shape, though I can’t see much other than her slender waist with her back to me. How fortuitous to have bagged a house next door to a cute girl.

I shake my head. I don’t have time for that. I’ve returned with one mission: to open my own restaurant. After eight years working under some of the most prestigious chefs in Paris, I now want my own piece of the pie, if you’ll pardon the pun.

While there’s more unpacking to do, I could do with some fresh air. I noticed earlier, through the front window of the living room, that the front garden is a mess. I should get on that. I’m thinking of growing my own herbs. I might be biting off more than I can chew, but who knows?

* * *

I’ve been in the garden for an hour, pulling weeds and trying to tidy the place up. I’m crouching and fighting with a particularly stubborn dandelion root when I hear a door slam behind me.

Straightening, I turn to see the woman next door standing by her car. She has her back to me. She’s wearing a gray pantsuit and showing off a rather toned behind, which, being a man, I can’t help but notice. Her jet-black hair reaches just past her shoulder blades. It has a slight wave in it and shines against the light of the rising sun.

Okay, she’s hot, but you still don’t have time for that.

Maybe not, but I should at least introduce myself. We are going to be neighbors, after all.

“Good morning,” I call out.

The woman freezes like I have a gun to her back or something. I suppose it is still pretty early. Maybe she didn’t expect me to be out here. Heck, maybe she doesn’t even know I’ve moved in.

“I’m your new neighbor,” I explain, so she doesn’t completely freak out.

She heaves a huge sigh and then slowly turns to face me. But suddenly, it’s not her who’s freaking out. It’s me. And with absolutely no decorum whatsoever, my jaw immediately slackens, and my mouth falls open.

“Hello, Troy,” she says tightly.

I can hardly believe my eyes. Am I truly so sleep-deprived that I’m seeing things? No, that’s not it. This is reality. A reality that has just punched me in the gut. Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

You see, the woman standing in front of me—this stunningly beautiful woman, with her perfect skin, sparkling blue eyes, wide mouth, and high cheekbones—is the same girl I once knew.

Well, that’s an understatement. It was far more than that, and you know it.

I do, but I’m currently dealing with the effects of shock here.

“Charlotte?” I breathe in disbelief.

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