Chapter 3 - Claire
The second the door closes behind my parents, my knees nearly give out.
Holy shit. That worked. That actually worked.
I'm still pressed against Nash's side, his arm heavy and warm around my waist, and I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except stand here and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
My mother looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. My father looked like he was mentally calculating how much it would cost to hire a private investigator to run a background check. And both of them decided to stay at a hotel an hour away instead of the bed and breakfast right here in town.
An hour away.
They're staying an hour away because they're that uncomfortable.
It's perfect.
It's exactly what I wanted.
So why do I feel like I'm about to pass out?
"Claire?"
Nash's voice rumbles through his chest and I realize I can feel it. His voice. Vibrating against my hand.
My hand that's still pressed flat against his chest.
Oh god.
I jerk back like I've been electrocuted, stumbling a little, and his arm drops from my waist.
"Sorry," I blurt out. "Sorry, I—that was—thank you. You were amazing. Did you see their faces? My dad looked like he wanted to call the cops."
I'm babbling. I'm absolutely babbling and I can't stop. Nash just looks at me with those dark eyes, and I wonder if he can tell.
If he knows.
That the second he pulled me against him, my entire body went haywire. That I'm currently having a crisis in the general area of my underwear. That I've been wet since the moment his hand wrapped around my waist and I felt exactly how strong he is.
No.
No, there's no way he knows.
Because that would require him to think of me as someone who could be attracted to him, and men like Nash don't think about women like me that way.
"Your dad didn't like me," Nash says.
"That's the point," I say quickly. "You were perfect. Seriously. When I said you’re a hero… That was a great touch, don’t you agree?"
"It was, but there was no need for that."
"I know, but—" I wave my hand vaguely. "It made my mom pause. Just for a second. That's huge. My mom doesn't pause."
He's still looking at me.
I'm still talking.
"And the way you just—" I gesture at where we were standing. "The arm thing. I didn't expect that. That was good. Really good. Very boyfriend-y."
"You said to act like we're dating."
"I did. Yeah. You're right. And you did. Great job."
Jesus Christ, I sound like I'm giving him a performance review. His jaw tightens and I think I see something flicker in his eyes, but it's gone before I can name it.
"Dinner's at seven," he says.
"Right. Yeah. Dinner." I run my hands through my hair, trying to calm down. "We should probably, I don't know, get our story straight? Like how we got together, how long we've been dating, that kind of thing?"
"Okay."
"Do you want to… I mean, we could talk about it now? Or later? Whatever works for you."
"Now's fine."
"Okay. Great. Do you want to sit? I can make coffee. Or tea? Do you drink tea? I have tea. Somewhere."
I'm already moving toward the kitchen, desperate for something to do with my hands.
He follows me.
The kitchen is small, too small, suddenly, with him in it. He takes up so much space. Not just physically, though god knows he does that too. But there's a presence to him. Something solid and immovable, like gravity.
I busy myself with the coffee maker, measuring grounds with shaking hands.
"So," I say, not looking at him. "We should probably say we've been dating for... a month? Two months? What sounds believable?"
"You pick."
"One month," I decide. "That's recent enough that it makes sense I haven't told them yet, but long enough that it's clearly serious. Or serious-ish. You know."
I risk a glance at him.
He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and I try very hard not to stare at the way his biceps strain against his shirt sleeves.
I fail.
"How'd we meet?" he asks.
"We're neighbors," I say, forcing my eyes back to the coffee maker. "That part's true. We could just say we ran into each other one day and started talking."
"About what?"
"I don't know. Normal stuff. The weather. The neighborhood. My terrible parallel parking."
His mouth twitches. Just barely.
Did he almost smile?
"You're bad at parallel parking?"
"The worst," I admit. "I once spent twenty minutes trying to park in front of the grocery store and finally gave up and parked in the lot behind the building."
"I've seen you park."
I freeze, coffee scoop halfway to the filter. "You have?"
"You're not that bad."
"You've watched me park?"
He doesn't answer, but something in his expression shifts. Closes off.
"I notice things," he says finally.
The coffee maker starts to gurgle and hiss, filling the silence. I don't know what to do with that. With the idea that he's been noticing me. Watching me.
It shouldn't make me feel hot all over. It definitely shouldn't make the situation in my underwear worse.
I clear my throat. "Right. Okay. So, we met as neighbors, started talking, and then... what? You asked me out?"
"Did I?"
"I mean, one of us had to. And it seems more… I don't know, believable if you did it? You're the guy."
"That matter?"
"No. Yes. Maybe?" I grab two mugs from the cabinet and pour coffee into both, grateful for the distraction. "I don't know. My parents are old-fashioned. If I say I asked you out, my dad will give me a lecture about being too forward and scaring men off."
"You don't scare me."
I hand him a mug and our fingers brush. It's barely a touch. Barely anything at all, but I feel it everywhere.
"Sugar? Milk?" My voice comes out higher than normal.
"Black's fine."
Of course it is. Of course he drinks his coffee black like some kind of rugged mountain man. I dump three sugars and a generous pour of cream into mine and take a sip, even though it's still hot enough to burn.
"So, you asked me out," I say, getting us back on track. "Where'd we go?"
"Where do you want to say we went?"
"I don't know. Somewhere in town. The diner, maybe? That seems like a normal first date."
He nods slowly. "The diner works."
"Okay. Good. We went to the diner, we talked, we hit it off. And then we just... kept seeing each other."
"Okay."
"And we haven't told anyone yet because it's new and we wanted to keep it private."
"Makes sense."
This is working. This is totally working. So why does it feel like there's an elephant in the room that I'm desperately pretending not to see?
Nash takes a drink of his coffee, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
I need help.
Professional help.
"Is there anything else we should cover?" I ask. "Pet peeves? Habits? Things couples would know about each other?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. What time you wake up. What you do for fun. Whether you're a morning person or a night owl."
"Morning," he says. "I wake up at five. Don't really have hobbies. Work keeps me busy."
"You must do something for fun."
He's quiet for a moment. "I read sometimes."
"Yeah? What kind of books?"
"Thrillers. Mysteries. Stuff where I can turn my brain off."
I smile before I can stop myself. "I wouldn't have taken you for a reader."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. You just seem more..." I trail off, realizing I'm about to say something potentially insulting.
"More what?"
"Action-oriented," I finish lamely. "Like you'd rather be doing something than sitting still."
"I've done enough action for one lifetime."
There's something in his voice when he says it. Something heavy. I think about the scars again. The ones I can see and the ones I can't.
"How long were you a firefighter?" I ask.
"Twenty-two years."
"That's a long time."
"Long enough."
He doesn't elaborate, and I don't push. But I want to. I want to know everything. What made him retire. What those scars are from. Why he lives alone in a house that's too quiet. Why he fixed my porch light without telling me.
"What about you?" he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"What about me?"
"Morning or night?"
"Night. Definitely night. I'm basically useless before ten a.m. My brain doesn't start working until I've had at least two cups of coffee." I lift my mug as evidence.
"What do you do? For work."
"IT. Remote tech support, mostly. I help people when their computers hate them."
"You good at it?"
"I'm okay. It's not exactly thrilling, but it pays the bills and I can do it from anywhere. That's why I moved here. I wanted out of the city."
"Why?"
Because I was suffocating, I think. Because my parents were everywhere. Because I needed to know who I was without them breathing down my neck every second.
"I wanted space," I say instead. "And I always liked the idea of small-town life. It seemed... I don't know. Quieter. Simpler."
"Is it?"
"So far." I take another sip of coffee. "I like it here. Even if my parents think I've lost my mind."
"They seem like they care about you."
"They do," I admit. "Too much, maybe. They want to control everything. Where I live, what I do, who I date." I pause. "That's why this whole fake dating thing is so important. They need to see that I make my own choices now. Even if they don't like those choices."
Nash sets his mug down on the counter. "And you think me being around will prove that?"
"I think you being around will scare them enough that they back off," I say honestly. "No offense."
"None taken."
But there's something in his expression that makes me wonder if I've hurt him somehow. Before I can figure out what to say, he straightens.
"I should go. Let you get ready for dinner."
"Oh. Right. Yeah."
He moves toward the door and I follow, coffee mug still in hand. At the door, he pauses. Turns back to me.
"Claire."
My name in his voice does something to me.
"Yeah?"
"You did good," he says. "With your parents. Standing up to them."
I blink, caught off guard. "Oh. Thanks. I mean, I had help. You were… You really saved me back there."
He looks at me for a long moment, and I swear there's something he wants to say.
But then he just nods. "See you at seven."
"Seven," I echo.
He leaves, and I close the door behind him and immediately slide down to sit on the floor. My heart is racing. My face is hot. And my underwear is definitely ruined.
I drop my head into my hands and let out a long, shaky breath.
This was supposed to be simple. Easy. A straightforward transaction. He pretends to be my boyfriend, my parents get scared, everyone wins.
But nothing about the last hour felt simple.
Nothing about the way he looked at me, or the way his arm felt around my waist, or the way my body reacted to him felt fake.
And that's a problem.
Because Nash is doing me a favor. He's being a good neighbor. That's all this is to him. I can't let myself forget that.
Even if my body is screaming at me that it wants more.
Even if I spent the entire conversation with my parents fighting the urge to turn in his arms and kiss him just to see what he'd do.
Even if some traitorous part of my brain is now imagining what tonight's dinner will be like. Sitting next to him. His hand on my knee under the table, maybe. His arm around my shoulders.
I press my thighs together and bite back a whimper.
I'm in so much trouble.