Page 4 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
I don't know what the hell I'm doing. This is a mistake. I should be keeping my distance, not inserting myself further into herlife. But the way her eyes widen with surprise and hope makes something in my chest race.
"Two conditions," I say, keeping my voice firm. "You keep the music down for two months like you promised. And we need a story—how we got together, how long we've been dating. Your parents won't believe it otherwise."
She launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
The scent of her strawberry shampoo fills my senses. Her body is warm against mine, curves pressing into me in ways that make it hard to remember why this is a bad idea. Instinctively, my hands come to rest at her waist.
Then she seems to realize what she's doing and jumps back, her cheeks flushed. "Sorry! I'm a hugger. Should've warned you."
"It's fine," I lie. It's not fine. Nothing about this situation is fine. I want to pull her back against me and find out if her mouth tastes as sweet as it looks.
Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets. "So, what's our story?"
She leans against the counter, eyes bright with excitement. "Well, obviously we met when I moved in. Maybe you helped me with something? Like, I don't know, fixing a leaky faucet?"
"I did fix your leaky faucet," I remind her. "In October. You brought me banana bread as thanks."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You remember that?"
I shrug, not willing to admit I remember every interaction we've had. "It was good banana bread."
"Okay, so we start with truth! You fixed my faucet, I thanked you with baking, and... we started talking more? Then maybe you asked me out for coffee?"
I can't help the short laugh that escapes me. "Your parents would never believe I asked you out for coffee."
She tilts her head. "No, you're right. You'd be more direct." She deepens her voice in what I assume is an impression of me. "'Sunny, I'm taking you to dinner. Be ready at seven.'"
"I don't sound like that."
"You absolutely do." She grins. "Okay, so you demanded I have dinner with you, I was charmed by your caveman approach, and we've been dating for... three months?"
Three months. Long enough to be serious but not so long that her parents would be offended they're just now hearing about me.
"Fine. Dinner, three months ago. What else would they expect me to know about you?" I ask, trying to keep this practical.
Sunny hops up to sit on the counter, legs swinging. The casual movement draws my eyes to her bare thighs below her shorts.
"Let's see... they'll expect you to know I'm allergic to strawberries. That I went to art school for two years before dropping out to freelance. That I hate scary movies but love true crime podcasts, which makes no sense but there it is." She counts these off on her fingers.
"You're not allergic to strawberries," I say before I can stop myself. "You were eating them on your porch last week."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You... noticed that?"
Shit. "Hard not to notice when you're sitting ten feet from my garage."
She nods, but I can tell she's wondering what else I've noticed. Too much, is the answer. Way too much.
"What about you?" she asks. "What would I know about you if we'd been dating three months?"
"Not much," I say honestly. "I don't talk about myself."
"Oh, come on, I'd know something." She kicks her feet gently against the cabinets. "Did you serve? How long? Do you have family? Basic boyfriend knowledge."
I sigh, leaning against the opposite counter. "Army, fifteen years, three tours in Afghanistan. Parents both dead. One sister in Colorado I talk to maybe twice a year."
Sunny's playful expression softens. "I'm sorry about your parents."
"It was a long time ago." I don't mention that my father died never having said he was proud of me, or that my mother followed him a year later from what I'm convinced was a broken heart. Some details aren't needed for this charade.
