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 sitdown 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?"
