Page 17 of Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor
This is what her parents are going to see across the table tonight.
I should feel bad about that.
I don't.
Let them see exactly what their daughter chose. Let them see that she's making her own decisions, even if those decisions involve a washed-up firefighter with nothing to offer but a strong back and a pension.
Even if it's all fake.
Especially because it's all fake.
My phone buzzes.
Claire: *I'll drive us to dinner. My parents picked some fancy place outside town. I'll pick you up at 6:30?*
I stare at the message. She's going to pick me up. We're going to be alone in her car.
Me: *Okay.*
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Then I spend the next two hours pacing my house like a caged animal, watching the clock and trying not to think about how small her car probably is and how close we'll be sitting and whether she'll smell like vanilla again.
At 6:25, I give up and go outside to wait. Better than sitting inside where I might actually lose my mind.
The evening air is warm, the sun starting to dip toward the horizon. Her house is quiet. Lights on in the kitchen window. I can see her moving around inside and I make myself look away.
At exactly 6:30, her front door opens, and I forget how to breathe.
She's wearing a dress. A different one. This one is black and it hugs her body in ways that should be illegal. It's not revealing. The neckline is high, the skirt falls to her knees, but it doesn't matter.
She's devastating.
Her hair is down again, falling in waves over her shoulders. She's got heels on. Not tall ones, but enough to change the way she walks. And she's wearing lipstick. Dark red lipstick that makes her mouth look like sin.
I'm staring. I know I'm staring and I can't stop. She locks her door and turns, and when she sees me standing in my driveway, she smiles.
"Hey," she calls out. "You ready?"
No.
"Yeah."
She walks toward me and I track every step. The sway of her hips. The way the hem of her dress moves. The nervous way she's clutching her purse.
"You look nice," she says when she reaches me.
"So do you."
Nice. That's the word I used. *Nice.*
She looks like every fantasy I've ever had come to life and I said *nice.*
Her cheeks turn pink. "Thanks. I wasn't sure what to wear. My parents picked this restaurant that's supposed to be really fancy, and I didn't want to look like I just rolled out of bed, but I also didn't want to look like I'm trying too hard, you know?"
She's nervous-talking again.
I love it.
