Page 6 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
Except when he was standing in my kitchen earlier today, filling the space with his presence, it didn't feel fake at all. The way his eyes followed my movements, the brief moment when his hands rested on my waist after my impulsive hug... there was something there. Something that made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with neighborly friendship.
Or maybe I'm just projecting because it's been approximately forever since I've had any romantic prospects. Cedar Falls isn'texactly a hotbed of eligible bachelors for twenty-something freelance designers.
Not that I'm looking at Garrett that way. He made it pretty clear he thinks I'm a kid. Fifteen years younger and "running out of time when I'm barely getting started," as I so tactlessly put it. I cringe remembering how his eyebrow had raised at that comment.
I check my phone again. Seven minutes.
The lasagna smells amazing, at least. I followed my grandmother's recipe to the letter, determined not to mess up the layers this time. Tomorrow has to be perfect. My parents already think my life is a mess; I can't serve them a messy dinner on top of everything else.
Anxiety bubbles in my chest as I think about tomorrow. Will they believe Garrett is my boyfriend? Will they approve? Do I even want them to approve? The whole point is to shock them enough that they stop nagging me about finding someone, not to actually get their blessing.
But a small, pathetic part of me still craves their approval, even as I rebel against their expectations.
I jump at the sound of a knock on my door—firm, decisive. Garrett's knock.
"Coming!" I call, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched. I check the mirror one last time, fluff my curls, and take a deep breath.
It's just dinner. With my neighbor. Who I see almost every day. Who agreed to pretend to be my boyfriend.
Totally normal.
I open the door to find Garrett standing there with a six-pack of craft beer in one hand and—surprisingly—a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. He's dressed in dark jeans and abutton-down shirt the same steel blue as his eyes, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.
"H-hi," My voice trembles.
"Hi." His eyes do a quick sweep of my appearance, lingering just a moment too long to be casual. "You look... nice."
Is that surprise in his voice? The thought that Garrett might not have realized I own anything other than leggings and oversized t-shirts makes me feel both self-conscious and weirdly pleased.
"Thanks. So do you." I step back to let him in. "Are those for me?" I gesture to the wildflowers.
He holds them out somewhat stiffly. "Thought it would be more convincing. For tomorrow."
"Right. For tomorrow." I take the flowers, "That's really thoughtful, thank you."
An awkward silence falls between us as I search for a vase. I can feel him watching me, and it makes me even more nervous, my movements becoming clumsy as I fill a mason jar with water.
"Dinner smells good," he says finally.
"Thanks! It's my grandmother's recipe. The secret is using both ricotta and cottage cheese in the filling." I'm babbling. Why am I babbling? "I mean, not that it's a secret anymore since I just told you, but—"
"Sunny." His voice is calm, steady. "Breathe."
I inhale deeply, setting the makeshift vase of wildflowers on the table. "Sorry. I get chatty when I'm nervous."
"Why are you nervous?"
Good question. "I don't know. This whole thing is weird, right? Practicing to pretend to be a couple?"
Garrett opens two beers, handing one to me. "A little weird," he admits, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly. "But practical."
"Practical," I echo, taking a sip of beer. "That's very you."
"What does that mean?" There's no defensiveness in his tone, just curiosity.
I gesture vaguely at him. "You know. Organized. Logical. Everything in its place." I peek around him toward the window where I can just see the edge of his meticulously maintained yard. "I bet you alphabetize your spices."
"I do not alphabetize my spices," he says, then pauses. "They're organized by frequency of use."
