Page 7 of Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor
This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
Because when this is over, when her parents leave and she thanks me and we go back to being strangers who live next door to each other, I'm going to know exactly what I'm missing.
And it's going to kill me.
But I already said yes.
And I'm not taking it back.
Days later…
Friday comes too fast and not fast enough.
I've been useless all week. Couldn't focus on anything. Picked up a job helping repaint the community center and spent half the day staring at the wall instead of rolling paint onto it. Tom, the guy who hired me, asked if I was feeling okay.
I lied and said I was fine.
I'm not fine. I'm standing in my living room at two in the afternoon, staring at my closet like it holds the answers to the universe.
What does a fake boyfriend wear?
I've got jeans. A lot of jeans. Some T-shirts. A couple of flannels. Work boots that are still caked in mud from the last job.
Nothing that says *hi, I'm dating your daughter and you should definitely not worry about this.*
Not that I'm trying to make them comfortable. Claire said she wanted someone they wouldn't approve of. That's me. I don't have to try.
But still.
I pull on a black T-shirt that's tight enough to show the scars on my arms and a pair of jeans that are clean but worn. Boots. No point in pretending to be something I'm not.
Then I stand in front of the mirror and regret every choice I've ever made. I look exactly like what I am. An old, broken-downfirefighter who spent too many years running into buildings that should've been left to burn.
The scar across my ribs is visible through the shirt if you look close enough. The ones on my arms are obvious. There's a new one on my hand from last month when I caught it on a piece of sheet metal during a roofing job.
I'm a mess.
And I'm about to meet her parents.
My phone buzzes.
Claire: *They're here. Can you come over in like ten minutes? I told them you were at work.*
My heart kicks into overdrive.
Ten minutes.
Me: *Yeah.*
I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I spend the next nine minutes pacing my living room like a caged animal.
This is insane. I'm insane. She's going to take one look at me standing next to her parents and realize this was a mistake. But I'm going anyway.
Because she asked.
At nine and a half minutes, I walk out my front door, cross the lawn, and knock on hers.
