Page 32 of Faking it with my Off Limits Neighbor

“And you look after that young lady,” she says. “You’ve got a good one there, Troy.”

“I will,” I reply. And even as I leave her, there is a determination within me to do just that.

When I finally pull the truck into my driveway, I look over at Charlie, who looks a little tired, but happy.

“I haven’t said thank you for what you did today,” I say. “Grandma was thrilled to see us both.”

“It was my pleasure,” Charlie replies. “She’s a lovely woman. Just like a grandma should be.”

Charlie doesn’t have any grandparents. Her father was an orphan, and her mother’s parents both died when Charlie was very young. In fact, Charlie doesn’t have much family to speak of. I think there’s an aunt somewhere—her mother’s sister—but I can’t remember her mentioning anyone else.

“I want to make it up to you,” I say. “Will you let me make you dinner?”

“If I remember correctly, I’m the one who owes you for fixing my car.”

“Then you can wash the dishes afterward,” I quip.

Charlie giggles again, and when she settles, she doesn’t say anything.

“So, what do you say?”

Eventually, she nods. “I’d like that.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“You mean now?” she blurts.

“Sure. When did you think I meant?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I…”

“Now is as good a time as any. Come on.”

* * *

With wine in hand, Charlie tells me about her business while I throw together boeuf bourguignon, potatoes dauphinoise, and a Lyonnaise Salad.

“It just gives me this great feeling of satisfaction when I see a room finished,” she says. “The thing is, half the time, my clients don’t really know what they want. It’s my job to figure that out and then present them with something I know they’ll love.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” I say as I peel the pearl onions.

“Yes. But it’s work I love. And that’s the main thing. You must get that.” She nods to the produce I’m preparing. “Is it not the same when you create a culinary masterpiece for someone?”

I smirk at her. “Maybe you give me too much credit.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I’m sitting here watching you, and I can hardly see your hands moving, they’re going so fast. Ten years is a big investment.”

“We’ll let the food do the talking,” I say.

And apparently, that’s precisely what it did because Charlie could not stop complimenting the meal. So much so, that it was getting embarrassing.

“I get it,” I protest. “You like it. I’m pleased, but enough already.”

“Am I embarrassing you, Troy?” she sings with a smirk dancing on her lips.

“My food is good, but I’m not Paul Bocuse.”

“Who?” Her eyebrows fly up her forehead in confusion.

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