Page 16 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
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.
