Page 5 of Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor
I back away slowly, like I'm retreating from a wild animal.
"Thanks," I say again. "Really. This is really nice of you."
He doesn't respond. I turn and walk back to my house, heart racing so hard I'm surprised it doesn't burst out of my chest.
I did it.
I actually did it.
And now I have a fake boyfriend.
I have no idea what I've just started.
Chapter 2 - Nash
I watch her walk back to her house, bare feet leaving dark prints in the wet grass, and I don't move. I can't move. She just asked me to be her boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend, I correct myself. Pretend. Not real.
But still.
I stand there in my yard, mower silent beside me, trying to process what the hell just happened.
Claire.
Her name is Claire. I know because I've seen the mail in her box when I walk past. Claire Taylor. I've never said it out loud, but I've thought it plenty of times. Usually when I'm lying awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I can't stop thinking about my neighbor.
My much younger, completely out of my league neighbor.
Who just asked me to pretend to date her.
I should've said no.
That's what a smart man would've done. A reasonable man. Someone with a functioning sense of self-preservation.
But I'm not smart and I've never been reasonable, and the second she said *I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend*, every logical thought in my head went up in flames.
I said yes before I could stop myself.
Like it was nothing. Like she'd asked to borrow a cup of sugar instead of asking me to play the role I've been fantasizing about for three months straight.
Jesus Christ, I'm an idiot.
I grab the mower handle and yank it back toward the garage. The wheels catch on a patch of uneven ground and I have to muscle it free. Good. I need something to do with my hands before I do something stupid like walk over there and ask her if she meant it.
Of course she meant it. She looked terrified when she said it, but she meant it.
And she thinks I'm doing her a favor.
*Someone they wouldn't approve of, no offense.*
No offense.
Like I don't know exactly what I look like. Like I haven't spent the last two years watching women in this town look at me and then look away, quick and polite, because they can see the damage written all over me.
I'm forty-three years old. I'm covered in scars. I've got nothing to offer except a pension, a mortgage, and a lifetime of nightmares about buildings that collapsed with people still inside.
Not exactly boyfriend material.
