Page 21 of Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor
I can hear the judgment in her voice. The way she's saying "odd jobs" like it's code for "unemployed."
"Construction, mostly," Nash says, unbothered. "Roofing, repairs, whatever people need help with."
"How industrious," my mother says in a tone that suggests it's anything but.
My father leans back in his chair. "Must be hard to make a living that way. Inconsistent work, no benefits."
"I get a pension from the fire department," Nash says evenly. "It's enough."
"Enough for what?" my mother asks.
"To live."
The simplicity of the answer seems to stump her.
I jump in before she can recover. "Nash owns his house outright. He's doing great." I’ve no idea if it’s true, but I say it anyway.
"Does he?" My father's eyebrows rise slightly. "That's impressive. Real estate in even small towns isn't cheap these days."
"Bought it two years ago," Nash says. "Before prices went up."
"Smart," my father admits grudgingly.
The waiter returns with the wine and goes through the whole production of letting my father taste it before pouring glasses for everyone. I take a large sip immediately.
This is going to be a long dinner.
"So, how exactly did you two meet?" my mother asks, her eyes moving between us. "Claire was rather vague earlier."
"We're neighbors," I say. "I told you that."
"Yes, but how did you go from neighbors to... this?" She gestures vaguely at us.
I open my mouth, but Nash speaks first.
"I helped her carry groceries one day," he says. "She was trying to get everything in one trip. Looked like she was about to drop it all."
I stare at him.
That actually happened. Three weeks ago. I'd parked in my driveway with way too many bags and I'd been determined to make it work, and he'd appeared out of nowhere and just taken half of them from me without asking.
I'd stammered out a thank you and he'd nodded and carried them up to my porch and left. I didn't know he remembered that.
"We started talking," Nash continues. "She invited me in for coffee. We just... kept talking."
Oh my god.
He's good at this.
Too good.
And the way he's telling it, calm, like it's the most natural thing in the world, makes it sound real. Makes it sound like it actually happened that way.
My mother's expression softens slightly. "That's... sweet."
My father still looks skeptical. "And when was this?"
"About a month and a half ago," I say, picking up the thread. "We took things slow at first. Just coffee, talking. Then he asked me to dinner and..." I shrug, trying to look casual. "Here we are."
