Page 4 of Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor
He looks up, and then he shuts off the mower. The sudden silence is deafening. He straightens, wiping his forearm across his forehead, and turns to face me fully.
Oh no.
He's so much bigger up close. Taller, broader, more. The scars are even more visible now. Thin white lines, thick pink ridges, a whole history written across his skin. His eyes are dark, and he's looking at me like he's waiting for me to explain why I just interrupted his morning.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Say something. Anything.
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend."
I said that. His expression doesn't change. He just stares at me, silent, and I realize with mounting horror that I've made a terrible mistake.
"I… Okay, that sounded insane," I say quickly, words tumbling over each other. "I can explain. My parents are coming to visit and they're… They're a lot. They keep trying to control my life and get me to move back to the city and I just need them to back off, you know? And I thought if they saw I had a boyfriend, someone they wouldn't approve of, no offense, they'd realize I'm serious about staying here and living my own life and—"
I'm rambling. I'm absolutely rambling and he's still just staring at me.
"You don't have to actually do anything," I add desperately. "Just show up. Exist. Maybe put your arm around me once or twice. That's it. I'll tell them we're dating and then after they leave, I'll tell you thanks and we can go back to being neighbors who pretend we don't see each other taking out the trash at the same time."
Still nothing.
I'm going to die. Right here, on his lawn, soaking wet feet and all.
"I know this is weird," I say, quieter now. "And if you say no, I totally get it. I'll just, I'll go. We can forget this ever happened."
He's still looking at me.
Then, finally, he speaks.
"When?"
I blink. "What?"
"When are they coming?"
"Friday," I say. "They're arriving Friday afternoon."
He nods slowly, like he's thinking it over.
Then he says, "Okay."
I stare at him. "Okay?"
"Yeah." His voice is low, rough, like he doesn't use it much. "I'll do it."
"You… You will?"
"Yeah."
I wait for him to say something else. To ask why, or what's in it for him, or literally any follow-up question.
He doesn't. He just stands there, shirtless and sweaty and covered in scars, and looks at me like it's already decided.
"Okay," I say faintly. "Okay. Great. Thank you. I'll—um—I'll give you the details later?"
He nods.
