Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor (Curvy Wives of Blackwater Falls #3)

Chapter 1 - Claire

The house is mine. All mine. No roommates, no parents down the hall, no one telling me I'm doing it wrong. Just me, my laptop, my Wi-Fi router, and a porch that creaks in the most perfect way when I step outside with my morning coffee.

I stand there now, mug in both hands, wearing pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt that says "Have You Tried Turning It Off and On Again?

" across the front. The sun is barely up, painting everything gold and pink, and I can hear birds.

Actual birds. Not car horns or sirens or the couple upstairs having another screaming match about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper.

Just birds.

I take a sip of coffee and let myself feel smug about it.

This is everything I wanted. The front porch, the quiet street, the neighbor who waves when she's getting her mail. Blackwater Falls is exactly the kind of small town I used to daydream about when I was stuck in my childhood bedroom listening to my parents argue about case files in the kitchen.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I already know who it is before I look.

Mom: *We've booked tickets. Arriving Friday afternoon. Send your address again.*

No. No, no, no.

I stare at the message like maybe it'll change if I blink hard enough. It doesn't. The words just sit there, smug and inevitable.

They're coming here. To my house. My space. The one place I've managed to carve out in the world that's completely, entirely mine.

Me: *You don't have to visit. I'm fine. Everything's great.*

The reply is instant.

Mom: *Of course we're visiting. We haven't seen where you're living. Your father and I want to make sure you're safe.*

What she means is: *We want to see what kind of mistake you've made so we can fix it.*

I close my eyes and grip the coffee mug harder. The heat burns against my palms but I don't let go.

I moved here three months ago. Three months of freedom, of making my own choices, of eating cereal for dinner and not showering until noon if I don't feel like it.

Three months of working my remote IT job in peace, of decorating my house exactly how I want it, of learning who I am when there's no one around to tell me I'm doing it wrong.

And now they're coming.

I can already see how it's going to go. My mother will walk through the door with her designer handbag and her perfectly tailored suit, and she'll look around my little rental house with that expression, the one that says she's disappointed but not surprised.

My father will be right behind her, already running calculations on how much it would cost to move me back to the city, back into their orbit where they can manage me properly.

They'll criticize the neighborhood, the size of the house, my furniture, my job, my life. They'll offer again to pay for an apartment near them. Something nice. Something they approve of. Somewhere they can drop by whenever the mood strikes because, after all, they're just worried about me.

And when I say no (again), they'll look at each other with that look. The one that says: *When is she going to grow up and stop being so stubborn?*

Except I'm not being stubborn. I’m free.

I'm twenty-six years old and for the first time in my entire life, I'm not living under their roof or by their rules.

I have my own space, my own routine, my own ridiculously small grocery budget because I won't take their money anymore.

I put up curtains they'd hate, bright yellow with little bees on them.

I bought a couch from Facebook Marketplace that has character, which is code for "one of the cushions sags.

" I painted my bedroom wall lavender because I wanted to and there was no one here to tell me it would hurt the resale value.

This house is mine and I don't want them here, picking it apart, trying to save me from a life I actually chose.

I need a plan.

I need something that will make them back off, that will prove I'm not their helpless little girl anymore. Something that shows I'm building a life here, a real life, and they need to let me live it.

I'm pacing the porch now, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the mug.

What do parents hate? What makes them realize their daughter is an adult who makes her own choices?

A boyfriend.

Not just any boyfriend. The wrong boyfriend. The kind of man they'd never approve of in a thousand years.

My brain is already running with it. Someone older. Rougher. Someone who doesn't work in finance or law or anything with a corner office. Someone who would make my mother clutch her pearls, if she wore pearls, which she doesn't, but she'd buy some just to clutch them.

It's perfect. It's insane. It's—

The sound of a lawn mower roars to life next door and I freeze mid-step.

Oh.

I turn slowly, like I'm in a horror movie and the killer is right behind me. Except it's not a killer. It's my neighbor.

Nash.

I don't know his last name. I don't know much about him at all, actually, except that he lives in the house next to mine, he's quiet, and he is—objectively, scientifically—the hottest man I've ever seen in real life.

He's mowing his lawn right now and he's shirtless. I should look away. I should go inside, finish my coffee, start my workday like a normal person.

I don't.

I stand there on my porch like a creep and I stare.

He's tall. Taller than anyone has the right to be.

Broad-shouldered, thick-armed, the kind of build that looks like it was carved out of marble by someone who got really into their work.

His hair is dark with silver threaded through it, and even from here I can see the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

And the scars.

God, the scars.

They're everywhere. His arms, his chest, his ribs. Some are faded and silver, others still pink like they're recent. There's one long jagged line that cuts across his side, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans.

I don't know what happened to him, but whatever it was, it was bad.

And I—

I shouldn't think he's attractive. That's weird, right? Scars aren't supposed to be hot.

Except on him they are.

On him, they're proof of something. Survival, maybe. Strength. A life lived hard and survived anyway.

I take a sip of coffee and nearly miss my mouth.

He's pushing the mower across the grass, muscles shifting under his skin, sweat starting to gleam in the early light. He doesn't look over. He never does. In the three months I've lived here, we've exchanged maybe a dozen words, and all of them were polite neighbor nonsense.

*Nice weather. Yeah, it is. Have a good one.*

He probably doesn't even know my name.

But I know his.

Nash.

I heard someone call him that once when he was helping old Mr. Finnegan down the street carry a new refrigerator inside. He'd just shown up, like he knew the old man would need help. Didn't ask for anything in return. Just did it and left.

He does that a lot, I've noticed. Quiet favors. My porch light went out two weeks ago and I kept meaning to fix it, but then one morning it was working again. I didn't think much of it until I saw him on his porch later that day, wiping his hands on a rag.

It was him.

It had to be.

I'm still staring at him when the idea hits me… He could be the fake boyfriend. My heart starts pounding and I don't know if it's from the brilliance of the plan or the sheer insanity of it.

Think about it. He's older, probably in his forties, which is practically ancient compared to me. He's got the whole rough, blue-collar thing going on. He's covered in scars and muscles and he looks like the kind of man who's never owned a tie in his life.

My parents would hate him.

And that's perfect.

I don't need him to actually be my boyfriend.

I just need him to show up, exist in the same room as my parents, maybe put his arm around me once or twice.

Just enough to make them panic. Just enough to make them realize I'm an adult and I can date whoever I want and they don't get a say in it anymore.

Then they'll leave and I'll tell Nash thanks, it was all fake, here's some money or baked goods or whatever people give their neighbors when they help them commit mild fraud.

It's foolproof.

Except for the part where I have to walk over there and ask him.

My stomach twists into a knot.

I can't do that.

Can I?

I look down at myself. Pajama shorts that are too short, an old T-shirt, no bra, hair in a messy ponytail. I'm not even wearing real glasses. These are my blue-light ones, which make me look like a librarian who got lost on the way to a rave.

And I'm—

I'm not the kind of girl men like Nash notice.

I'm chubby. My cheeks are too big and round, like I'm perpetually retaining water. I've got a belly that folds when I sit down and arms that jiggle when I wave. I'm cute, maybe. That's the word people use. Cute. Never hot. Never beautiful.

Men like Nash are with women who look like they were photoshopped into existence. Tall, thin, perfect. Not girls who buy jeans in the plus section and eat family-size bags of chips in one sitting while debugging code.

But that's exactly why this will work.

He'll say yes because it's fake. Because there's no risk. No chance I'll get the wrong idea and think he actually wants me. It's just a favor. Neighborly help. Like fixing my porch light.

I drain the rest of my coffee in one gulp and set the mug down on the porch railing.

I'm doing this.

I'm walking over there and I'm asking him and I'm not going to overthink it. Except I'm absolutely overthinking it.

What do I even say? *Hi, you don't know me, but will you lie to my parents?*

God, this is stupid.

But my phone buzzes again and I pull it out.

Dad: *Looking forward to seeing you, Claire-bear. We'll talk about next steps while we're there.*

Next steps. Like I'm a project. A problem to solve. I shove the phone back in my pocket and start walking before I can change my mind.

The grass is wet with dew and it soaks into my bare feet as I cross from my yard into his. He doesn't notice me at first. He's focused on the mower, on the neat lines he's cutting into the lawn.

I stop a few feet away, heart pounding, and clear my throat.

Nothing.

The mower is too loud.

I wave my arms a little. "Hey! Uh—Nash?"

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.

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.