Still, pretending to be her boyfriend? That's crossing a line. Getting involved with anyone, even pretend-involved, means complications. Attachments. The very things I've been avoiding since settling here.
But the look on her face when she mentioned her parents... I recognize that look. It's the face of someone who's trying so damn hard to prove themselves worthy. I know it well—saw it in the mirror for years trying to live up to my father's impossible standards.
The sandpaper tears in my grip. I toss it aside, annoyed at myself for getting distracted.
Truth is, I've watched Sunny work herself to exhaustion through her office window too many nights. She's no flake, despite what her parents apparently think. She's just... young. Idealistic. Hasn't had life kick the hope out of her yet.
And God help me, I like that about her. I like that she bakes when she's stressed and leaves cookies on my porch despite my complaints. I like that she talks to her plants and dances while she waters them, not caring who sees. I even like her ridiculously cheerful "good mornings" over the fence.
What I don't like is how often I catch myself thinking about her. Or how I've memorized her schedule. Or how I make sure I'm in the garage when she typically takes her morning coffee on the porch.
"This is a bad idea," I tell the empty garage. The last thing Sunny needs is her parents thinking she's involved with the damaged, antisocial ex-military guy next door.
The last thing I need is pretending to be close to someone I've been trying to keep at arm's length.
I set aside my tools and step out into the mid-morning sun, stretching my stiff shoulder. It's nearly noon now. Sunny's client call should be long finished. I glance toward her house and notice her car is gone. Probably making a grocery store run or grabbing lunch.
Good. Gives me time to come to my senses.
I head inside to make a sandwich, my house feeling particularly empty today. Unlike Sunny's cheerful clutter, my place is organized with military precision. Neutral colors, minimal decor, everything in its place. It's exactly how I want it. No surprises, no chaos.
Except now I'm picturing Sunny here, how she'd probably insist on adding "a pop of color" or whatever the hell she's always talking about while showing me paint swatches over the fence. She'd fill the silence with chatter, ask questions about my military service that I wouldn't want to answer, poke at wounds better left undisturbed.
And yet...
I find myself standing at my kitchen window, watching her driveway for her return.
The truth I've been avoiding slams into me with the subtlety of an IED: I want her. Not just physically, though there's definitely that, but all of her. The brightness she brings to everything. The way she sees good in everyone, even a grumpy bastard like me.
It's precisely why I should say no to this whole charade. Because pretending to be with Sunny, getting a taste of something I can't have—shouldn't have—would be torture.
Three hours, she said. Just dinner.
I'm still debating when her ancient Volkswagen Beetle pulls into her driveway, yellow as a damn sunflower, just like its owner. I watch as she struggles with grocery bags, dropping her keys twice before managing to get her front door open.
Before I can think better of it, I'm outside and crossing our yards.
"Need a hand?" I call, keeping my voice neutral.
She jumps, nearly dropping a bag. "Garrett! You scared me!"
"Sorry." I take two bags from her arms, ignoring how her fingers brush against mine. "Looked like you were about to lose the battle with gravity."
Her face lights up with that smile that always hits me. "My hero! I may have gone a little overboard shopping for tomorrow. I'm stress-buying groceries for my parents' visit."
I follow her into her kitchen, which looks like a paint store exploded in it. Yellow cabinets, blue countertops, mismatched everything. It's chaotic but somehow works, just like her.
"About that," I say, setting the bags down.
Sunny freezes, a box of pasta halfway to a cabinet. "About what?" Her voice has that forced casual tone that tells me she's bracing for rejection.
I clear my throat. "Your proposal."
"My... oh! The boyfriend thing." She turns to face me, twisting her hands together. "Look, I totally understand if you don't want to. It was a crazy idea and—"
"I'll do it."
Her mouth stays open, mid-sentence. "You... will?"
