Page 1 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
Chapter 1 - Sunny
I'm going to murder my alarm clock.
Seriously. It's blaring at me like the world is ending, and I've only managed two hours of sleep after finishing that website design at 4 AM. But rent doesn't pay itself, and in the freelance world, you take the rush jobs when they come.
Groaning, I smack the off button and squint at my phone. 7:30 AM. Why did I set it so early?
Oh. Right. The call with that potential new client in Seattle.
I stumble out of bed, my wild curls blocking half my vision as I navigate toward the coffee maker. My tiny rental house is cute but ancient, with creaky floorboards that announce my every move. The kitchen is barely big enough for one person, but it's mine, and I've made it colorful with hand-painted cabinets and mismatched vintage dishes displayed on open shelving.
"Good morning, Cedar Falls," I mutter to myself, pouring an obscene amount of coffee into my "Choose Joy" mug. "Another day, another dollar. Hopefully many dollars, actually."
As the caffeine slowly brings me to life, I glance at my phone again and see three missed calls from Mom. Plus a text:
*Don't forget we're coming tomorrow! Can't wait to see your place finally! Dad wants to know if you're still single or if there's someone we should meet. Love you!*
And just like that, my day implodes before it's even started.
"No, no, no," I groan, letting my forehead thunk against the refrigerator. I'd completely forgotten they were coming. Tomorrow. To my messy house. To judge my life choices.
I take my coffee to the back porch, needing fresh air to process this crisis. The April morning is cool but sunny, with dew still clinging to my overgrown garden. I should really weed that. Add it to the list of a thousand things I should do but never find time for.
From next door, I hear the sound of sanding. Of course, Garrett Stone is already hard at work in his garage. The man keeps military hours and probably judges me for sleeping past 5 AM.
Unlike my cheerful yellow cottage with its slightly neglected garden, Garrett's place is immaculate. No stray leaves dare accumulate on his lawn. His house is a modest gray Craftsman, but everything from the trim to the garden beds looks like it could pass a white-glove inspection.
I wander to our shared fence, coffee in hand. Despite his perpetual scowl, I've made it my mission to crack Garrett Stone's grumpy exterior. So far, after eight months of being neighbors, I've progressed from getting complete silence to receiving full sentences, albeit gruff ones.
"Morning, Garrett!" I call, spotting him through the open garage door. He's bent over what appears to be an antique dresser.
He straightens, and I can't help but notice how his gray t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders. For a man in his forties, my neighbor is unfairly attractive, even with that permanent scowl. His dark hair is peppered with gray at the temples, and those steel-blue eyes could cut glass when he's annoyed. Which is pretty much always when I'm around.
"Sunny," he acknowledges with a curt nod, barely pausing in his work. "You're up early."
I lean against the fence. "Big client call. Also, apparently my parents are coming tomorrow, which I completely forgot about, and now I'm in full panic mode."
He grunts something that might be sympathy but continues working.
"They think my job isn't real because I work from home," I continue, knowing he's probably not interested but needing to vent anyway. "And they're obsessed with me finding 'a nice man to settle down with.' Like it's 1952 or something."
"Parents usually want what they think is best."
"Yeah, well, what they think is best is me in an accounting job with a husband, a minivan, and 2.5 kids." I take a big gulp of coffee. "I'm twenty-five, not forty-five."
His eyebrow raises slightly at this, and I immediately regret my word choice.
"Not that there's anything wrong with forty-five!" I backpedal. "Or forty. Or whatever you are. Age is just a number, right? My point is, they treat me like I'm running out of time when I'm barely getting started."
Garrett sets down his sandpaper. "I'm forty," he says flatly, "And you're babbling."
"Sorry." I bite my lip. "I'm just stressed. They always make me feel like such a failure."
He stares at me for a moment, those intense blue eyes making me feel uncomfortably seen. "Then stop seeking their approval."
Easy for him to say. Garrett Stone probably hasn't sought anyone's approval since kindergarten.
Suddenly, a wild, completely inappropriate idea pops into my head. Before I can think better of it, the words tumble out: "What if you pretended to be my boyfriend?"
