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.
