My Beautiful Neighbor Said, “I Need a Boyfriend for Tonight”… So, I Gave Her a Condition.

My Beautiful Neighbor Said, “I Need a Boyfriend for Tonight”… So, I Gave Her a Condition.

“I need a boyfriend for tonight.”

That was the first thing my neighbor said when I opened my front door at 6:13 on a Friday evening. No hello, no explanation, just Emma Carter standing on my porch in a dark green dress, holding one high heel in her hand and looking at me like she was about to ask for either a kidney or a very strange favor.

I stared at her for three seconds.

“That sounds like a problem you should have started solving before dinner.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Noah.”

“Emma.”

“I’m serious.”

Unfortunately, so was my heart, because Emma had been living next door for 18 months, and I’d spent at least 17 of those pretending I didn’t notice how beautiful she was.

So I leaned against the doorframe and gave her the only answer my nervous brain could produce.

“Deal. But if I’m your boyfriend tonight, I’m not skipping the kissing part.”

Her mouth fell open.

Then she smiled.

“Fine, but you get one kiss.” She pointed the heel at me. “And I decide when.”

That should have been my warning that the evening was about to become much more complicated than either of us expected.

I should probably explain that Emma and I had developed the kind of neighbor relationship that made absolutely no sense to anyone except us.

I was 29, worked as a residential architect, and had bought my little two-story house outside Denver because I liked quiet streets, mature trees, and neighbors who waved politely without knowing my entire medical history.

Then Emma moved into the house next door.

She was 25, worked as an event coordinator, and apparently believed fences were suggestions rather than boundaries.

Within her first week, she’d knocked on my door because she couldn’t figure out how to restart her water heater. The following week, she borrowed a screwdriver. A month later, she returned the screwdriver along with six blueberry muffins.

I still wasn’t sure how borrowing one screwdriver required six muffins, but I didn’t complain.

Then came the lawn mower, the ladder, a casserole dish, my extension cord, my drill, half a bag of ice, and once, inexplicably, a rubber mallet.

“Why do you need a rubber mallet?” I’d asked.

“I’m hanging shelves.”

“You don’t hang shelves with a rubber mallet.”

She’d stared at me. “I’m hanging shelves aggressively.”

That was Emma.

She was smart, funny, completely capable of running a corporate event for 500 people, yet somehow unable to assemble a bookshelf without creating an international incident.

Over the months, our casual neighbor routine became something more comfortable. Coffee on Saturday mornings, arguments over which house had the worst gutters, takeout on my porch when one of us had worked late.

She knew I hated olives. I knew she secretly watched terrible dating shows and shouted advice at the television.

She knew my last serious relationship had ended two years earlier when my girlfriend decided she wanted to move to California and I didn’t. I knew Emma’s last relationship had ended badly enough that she’d developed an immediate suspicious look whenever anyone used the phrase “five-year plan.”

But we’d never dated.

We’d never kissed.

We’d barely even acknowledged that there might be something between us.

And that was mostly because we’d developed a remarkably sophisticated system of flirting while pretending we weren’t flirting.

For example, two weeks earlier, I’d been fixing the loose hinge on Emma’s back gate. She’d stood beside me holding lemonade.

“You know,” she’d said, “you’re becoming dangerously useful.”

“That’s what every man wants to hear from a beautiful woman.”

She’d gone very still.

I’d gone very still.

Then she’d handed me the lemonade.

“Don’t get excited. I was talking about the drill.”

And that had been the end of that.

So when Emma appeared on my porch asking me to become her boyfriend for one evening, I probably should have treated it like a simple favor.

Instead, I joked about kissing her, which was how I discovered that there was apparently a small, irresponsible version of me living inside my brain.

That man had no retirement plan.

He had no respect for consequences.

And apparently he really wanted to kiss my neighbor.

Emma lowered the heel she’d been pointing at me.

“Are you coming or not?”

“Where?”

“My parents’ anniversary party.”

I blinked. “You need a fake boyfriend for your parents’ anniversary?”

“That’s the short version.”

“I’m afraid to hear the long version.”

“Good. We’re already late.”

She turned toward my driveway.

I caught her elbow gently. “Emma.”

She looked back.

“Why me?”

For the first time since she’d arrived, the comedy disappeared from her face, only for a second.

Then she shrugged.

“Because I trust you.”

That answer did something unpleasantly warm to my chest.

She immediately ruined the moment.

“And because Mark from across the street wears socks with sandals.”

I looked toward Mark’s house.

“He does.”

“So you understand my situation completely.” She glanced at my jeans and T-shirt. “Also, you need to change.”

I looked down. “What’s wrong with this?”

“You look like you’re about to install a ceiling fan.”

“I might at your parents’ anniversary dinner. You don’t know what kind of party this is.”

“Emma.”

“Twenty minutes, Noah.”

“Thirty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Fine. Twenty.”

She started walking away.

I called after her, “Does my one kiss expire at midnight?”

Without turning around, she raised one hand.

“Keep negotiating and it becomes a handshake.”

I was smiling when I closed the door.

That should have worried me.

Twenty-three minutes later—I maintained that three minutes shouldn’t count because I couldn’t find my watch—I walked next door wearing a navy suit and white shirt.

Emma opened the door.

Then she just stared at me.

I adjusted my jacket.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m evaluating.”

“Am I approved?”

She slowly nodded. “You clean up suspiciously well.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It absolutely was.”

She grabbed a small purse from the entry table.

I noticed she’d changed shoes.

“You fixed the heel?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“I threw it away.”

“Practical.”

“I’m growing.”

We walked toward her car, then she stopped.

“Oh, one more thing.”

“That sentence hasn’t been good for me so far.”

“My family thinks we’ve been dating for three months.”

I stared at her.

She smiled nervously. “Surprise.”

“Three months?”

“Yes.”

“You told them that?”

“Technically, I told my mother I was seeing someone three months ago.”

“And that someone is now me.”

“Yes.”

“Emma.”

“I know.”

“Do I at least know your birthday?”

“April 22nd.”

“Favorite food?”

“Thai.”

“Middle name?”

“Grace.”

“Favorite color?”

“Green.”

“That explains the dress.”

She paused. “You notice the dress?”

I opened the passenger door for her.

“I’m pretending to be your boyfriend. I’m committed to the research.”

She smiled as she got in.

I walked around to the driver’s side because she’d already tossed me the keys. Apparently, fake boyfriends drove.

Five minutes into the trip, I discovered there was more.

“There may be questions,” Emma said.

“From whom?”

“My mother.”

“Normal.”

“My father.”

“Still normal.”

“My aunt Deborah.”

“Less encouraging.”

“My grandmother.”

I glanced at her. “How dangerous is Grandma?”

Emma considered that.

“She asked my cousin’s boyfriend about his credit score before dessert.”

I tightened my hands on the steering wheel.

“I’d like to renegotiate my fee.”

“You’re getting dinner and one kiss. Potentially.”

“You said definitely.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You said I get one.”

“I said I decide when.”

“That still confirms the existence of the kiss.”

She folded her arms.

“I’m beginning to regret choosing you.”

“You chose me because I’m charming.”

“I chose you because you own a suit.”

“I knew there was chemistry.”

She fought a smile.

I saw it anyway.

That was the problem.

I always saw Emma’s smiles, even the ones she tried to hide.

We stopped at a red light.

“So, what’s the real reason?” I asked.

“For what?”

“The fake boyfriend.”

Her fingers tightened around her purse.

“My sister’s getting engaged tonight.”

I looked over.

“I thought this was an anniversary party.”

“It is. Jason is proposing during dessert.”

“To Lily?”

“Yes.”

I knew Emma had an older sister named Lily, although I’d never met her.

“And why does that require me?”

“Because my mother is very happy about Lily settling down.”

I waited.

Emma looked out the window.

“And she’s been aggressively concerned that I’m not.”

“Ah.”

“Last month she gave my phone number to a dentist.”

“What’s wrong with dentists?”

“Nothing, but I’d like to choose my own dentists and boyfriends.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“And my ex will be there.”

There it was.

“What ex?”

“Daniel. The five-year-plan guy.”

Her head snapped toward me.

“You remember that?”

“You threw a pillow at your television while telling me about him.”

“He deserved it.”

“The television?”

“Daniel.”

I smiled.

“So he’s going tonight.”

“His parents are close friends with mine. It’s complicated.”

“And you told your mom you were dating someone so she’d stop trying to reunite you.”

Emma nodded. “Basically.”

“Does Daniel want you back?”

“I don’t know.”

That answer came too quickly.

I glanced at her.

“Emma.”

She sighed. “He asked me to get coffee two weeks ago and I said no.”

“Good.”

“You sound surprisingly invested.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

“Fake boyfriend.”

“Right. I forgot.”

Except I hadn’t.

Not even for a second.

The party was being held at a private dining room in a restaurant overlooking the foothills. There were maybe 30 people inside when Emma and I arrived.

She paused outside the entrance.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Rules.”

“There are rules?”

“Obviously.” She raised one finger. “No ridiculous stories about how we met.”

“We met because you flooded your laundry room.”

“That was one time.”

“You flooded mine too.”

“The water crossed the property line.”

“That’s generally how floods work.”

She raised another finger.

“No embarrassing pet names.”

“Understood, Pumpkin.”

“Noah.”

“Sweet cheeks.”

She stared at me.

“Darling.”

“I will murder you.”

“That sounds affectionate.”

She took a breath.

“Third rule, don’t overdo it.”

I looked at her. “Define overdo.”

“Don’t suddenly become some romantic movie boyfriend.”

“So no carrying you through the restaurant?”

“No.”

“No feeding you dessert?”

“No.”

“No dramatic declaration of love?”

“Definitely no.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“What about holding hands?”

Her expression changed slightly.

“That would probably help.”

“An arm around your waist?”

She hesitated. “Also believable.”

“And kissing?”

“Noah.”

“I’m reviewing the contract.”

She stepped closer.

Close enough that I could smell her perfume.

“If I need you to kiss me, you’ll know.”

I swallowed.

“And if I want to kiss you?”

Her eyes held mine for one dangerously long second.

Then she smiled.

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

And walked inside.

I followed her, thinking that 15 minutes earlier, this had seemed like a fantastic idea.

Emma’s mother spotted us almost immediately.

She was an elegant woman in her 50s, whose eyes moved from Emma to me and then directly to the hand Emma had slipped into mine approximately four seconds earlier.

Her smile widened.

“Emma.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“And you must be Noah.”

I leaned closer to Emma.

“You gave them my real name?”

She whispered back, “Of course.”

“I was prepared to be Sebastian.”

“Why Sebastian?”

“I look like a Sebastian in this suit.”

Emma’s mother laughed.

“I already like him.”

Emma closed her eyes briefly.

“Fantastic.”

Her mother hugged her, then hugged me with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting three months to inspect her daughter’s allegedly real boyfriend.

“I’m Susan.”

“Noah. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Finally.”

Emma shot me a warning look.

I smiled sweetly.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

That was technically true. Emma had told me her mother made excellent lasagna and dangerous assumptions.

Susan looked delighted.

“And we’ve heard very little about you.”

“I’ve noticed Emma enjoys maintaining an air of mystery.”

Emma squeezed my hand hard.

Susan didn’t notice.

“How did you two meet?”

Emma immediately said, “We were neighbors.”

At exactly the same moment, I said, “Flood.”

Susan blinked.

Emma glared at me.

I cleared my throat.

“She flooded her laundry room.”

“It was a faulty hose.”

“I saved her dryer.”

“You moved it six inches.”

“Heroically.”

Susan laughed.

Emma muttered, “This was a mistake.”

Then a tall man approached us. He looked like Emma around the eyes.

“Dad, this is Noah.”

He shook my hand.

“Richard. Nice to meet you.”

Richard looked at me, then at Emma, then back at me.

“How long have you two been dating?”

Emma answered instantly.

“Three months.”

I said, “Ninety-four days.”

Emma slowly turned toward me.

Richard raised an eyebrow.

“Ninety-four?”

I shrugged. “I’m sentimental.”

Emma looked as if she was deciding whether murder could be considered sentimental.

Her father smiled.

I liked him immediately.

For the next half hour, being Emma’s boyfriend was surprisingly easy.

Maybe too easy.

I already knew enough about her to answer most questions honestly.

Yes, she drank coffee with too much cream.

Yes, she hated horror movies but watched them anyway.

Yes, she got cranky when she was hungry.

“No, I do not,” Emma protested.

Her sister Lily laughed.

“You absolutely do.”

I nodded.

“Last Tuesday, she threatened a delivery driver because he forgot her spring rolls.”

“I did not threaten him.”

“You said, ‘I know where you work.’”

“He was holding the bag with the restaurant name on it.”

Lily was laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

Emma leaned against my shoulder.

“I hate you.”

I put my arm around her waist.

“You’re doing a terrible job of convincing your family.”

She looked up at me for a second.

Neither of us laughed.

My hand was resting on her waist. Her face was only inches from mine.

And suddenly, I became extremely aware that pretending to touch Emma wasn’t nearly as different from wanting to touch Emma as I’d hoped.

Then someone behind us spoke.

“Emma?”

Her body stiffened slightly.

I knew before turning.

Daniel.

He was around my age, clean-cut, polite-looking, and annoyingly handsome in the kind of way that made me immediately understand why people sometimes wanted to punch perfectly innocent men.

Emma straightened.

“Daniel. Hey.”

He smiled.

She smiled back.

Not warmly, not coldly, just carefully.

Then his eyes moved toward me.

“And you must be Noah.”

I offered my hand.

“Apparently, I’m famous.”

Daniel laughed.

“Emma’s mom mentioned you.”

“That seems dangerous.”

“It usually is,” Emma said.

Daniel looked at our joined hands.

“I didn’t realize you were seeing someone.”

Emma’s fingers shifted in mine.

“Yeah. I am.”

There was nothing dramatic in Daniel’s reaction, just a small pause.

Then he nodded.

“Good for you.”

And oddly, that made me dislike him less.

He wasn’t there to win Emma back. He wasn’t arrogant. He wasn’t rude. He was simply a person from her past, which made my job more complicated because I couldn’t even enjoy hating him.

Then Daniel looked at me.

“How’d you manage to get her to agree to a relationship?”

Emma gasped.

I smiled.

“Excellent question.”

“Noah.”

“I offered free home repairs.”

Daniel laughed.

Emma slapped my arm.

“Stop telling people that.”

“I’m building credibility.”

Daniel glanced at her.

“You look happy.”

The teasing vanished from Emma’s expression.

She looked at me, and something changed.

“I am.”

Two words.

Simple.

But she didn’t say them to Daniel.

She said them while looking at me.

My heart apparently misunderstood the assignment.

It started behaving as if this relationship wasn’t fake.

Dinner started soon afterward.

Emma and I sat together between Lily and Emma’s grandmother, who introduced herself as Margaret and immediately asked what I did for a living.

“Architect.”

“Own your house?”

“Yes.”

“Debt?”

Emma nearly choked on her wine.

I looked at Margaret.

“Mortgage. Retirement account.”

“Grandma,” Emma said.

Margaret ignored her.

“Credit score?”

I leaned toward the older woman.

“Are you planning to marry me?”

Margaret stared at me for two seconds.

Then she laughed.

“I like this one.”

Emma covered her face.

“I’m moving to another country,” I whispered.

“Not before my kiss.”

She lowered her hands.

“You have remarkable confidence for a man sitting beside my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother loves me.”

“She knows your credit score.”

“She respects financial responsibility.”

Under the table, Emma’s knee touched mine.

Neither of us moved away.

During the main course, I learned more about Emma than I’d learned in 18 months of living beside her.

Her father told a story about 11-year-old Emma organizing a neighborhood lemonade stand and firing her sister for creative differences.

Lily revealed Emma had once entered a school talent show despite having no identifiable talent prepared.

“What did you do?” I asked.

Emma looked miserable.

“Interpretive dance.”

I almost dropped my fork.

“You?”

“I was 12.”

“Was there video?”

“No.”

Lily said, “Yes.”

Emma pointed at her.

“You are dead to me.”

I turned toward Lily.

“We need to exchange phone numbers.”

Emma grabbed my sleeve.

“You’re supposed to be supporting me.”

“I’m your boyfriend, not your attorney.”

“Fake boyfriend.”

There was that word again.

This time I noticed I didn’t like hearing it.

After dinner, people moved toward the terrace while the staff prepared dessert.

The mountains were dark shapes beyond the windows, and strings of small lights had been hung above the outdoor tables.

Emma stood beside me near the railing.

“You’re actually pretty good at this.”

“At lying to your family?”

“At being charming.”

“Ouch.”

She smiled.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m always charming.”

“You argued with my grandmother about municipal bonds.”

“She started it.”

Emma laughed.

God, I loved making her laugh.

That thought appeared so clearly that I stopped smiling.

Loved.

Dangerous word.

Emma noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She studied my face.

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you’re thinking something but pretending you’re not.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Prove it.”

She moved closer.

“What are you thinking right now?”

That kissing you stopped feeling like part of the joke approximately two hours ago.

I said, “I’m thinking your family is terrifying.”

She smiled.

“Coward.”

Before I could respond, Susan approached.

“Pictures.”

Emma groaned.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Mom.”

“We almost never have everyone together.”

Ten minutes later, I found myself standing beside Emma in front of a flower-covered wall while her mother aimed a phone at us.

“Closer.”

Emma moved half an inch toward me.

Susan frowned.

“You’re dating, not negotiating a property line.”

I laughed.

Emma muttered, “I’m going to remember this when she’s old.”

I slipped my arm around her waist and pulled her gently against my side.

She looked up at me.

I looked down at her.

Susan suddenly went quiet.

I knew why.

We probably looked real.

Too real.

“Perfect,” Susan said softly.

The camera clicked.

Then Aunt Deborah called from behind her.

“Kiss her.”

Emma froze.

I nearly laughed.

Of course, there was an Aunt Deborah.

Susan waved dismissively.

“Leave them alone.”

Margaret disagreed.

“Kiss her.”

Emma looked at me.

Everyone started laughing.

I leaned slightly toward her.

“Contract clause?”

She whispered, “Absolutely not.”

“Understood.”

I turned toward the family.

“We’re saving that for our Christmas card.”

Emma laughed so unexpectedly that she buried her face against my shoulder.

The family loved it.

But I noticed something.

Her hands stayed against my chest a little longer than necessary.

Then Lily’s boyfriend, Jason, asked everyone to come back inside.

He made a speech.

Lily cried before he even reached the proposal.

Emma cried when Lily cried.

Susan cried because both daughters were crying.

Richard looked as if he knew crying was expected but hadn’t received instructions.

Jason got down on one knee.

Lily said yes.

Everyone applauded.

And I watched Emma.

She wasn’t sad.

She looked genuinely happy for her sister.

But there was something quieter behind her smile.

Something thoughtful.

Then her hand found mine.

Not because anyone was watching.

Everyone was watching Lily.

Emma simply reached sideways and laced her fingers through mine.

I looked at her.

She kept watching her sister, but she squeezed my hand.

I squeezed back.

That was the moment the evening stopped being funny.

Not completely. Emma and I were physically incapable of being serious for more than eight consecutive minutes.

But something real entered the room.

Something neither of us had agreed to.

Later, while everyone crowded around Lily, Emma slipped outside.

I followed her a minute later.

She was standing near the railing.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

I stood beside her.

For a while, we watched the lights of the city in the distance.

Then she said, “Daniel proposed to me once.”

That surprised me.

“You never told me that.”

“It was almost two years ago.”

“What happened?”

“I said no.”

“Because of the five-year plan?”

She smiled faintly.

“That was part of it.”

I waited.

Emma traced one finger along the railing.

“He had everything planned. Where we’d live, when we’d get married, when we’d have kids, even when I was supposed to stop working.”

My expression changed.

“He wanted you to quit eventually?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you want that?”

“No.”

“Then saying no seems pretty reasonable.”

She nodded.

“But everyone thought I’d lost my mind. Daniel’s a good guy. He had a good job. He loved me. But…” She looked at me. “He loved the version of me that fit his plan.”

That landed harder than I expected.

“And you didn’t?”

“I didn’t know who that woman was.”

For once, I had no joke.

Emma looked through the window at her sister.

“Lily looks so sure.”

“She does.”

“I’ve never felt that sure.”

“Maybe you haven’t met the right person.”

Her eyes shifted toward me.

My mouth suddenly became very dry.

“Maybe.”

The silence stretched.

Then she said, “I got offered a job in New York.”

There it was.

The real problem.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“How long?”

“Six months. Maybe longer.”

“That’s big.”

“It’s the biggest project I’ve ever been offered.”

“You should take it.”

Her face changed.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Why would I tell you not to take something you clearly want?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want me to?”

“No.”

That answer was too fast again.

I looked at her carefully.

“Is this why you asked me tonight?”

She laughed once, but there wasn’t much humor in it.

“Partly.”

“Explain.”

“My mom knows about the job. She thinks I’m running away from relationships again.”

“Are you?”

Emma looked down.

“I don’t know.”

I thought about that.

Then I asked the question I probably shouldn’t have.

“Why did you choose me?”

She gave me the old answer.

“Because I trust you.”

“No.”

Her eyes lifted.

“That isn’t all of it.”

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then voices came from inside.

The door opened.

Emma stepped back, and whatever answer she’d almost given me disappeared.

“You’re right,” she said. “It isn’t.”

Then she walked inside.

I stood there alone thinking about the fact that sometimes knowing there was an answer was worse than not knowing what it was.

The party continued for another hour.

Emma seemed normal.

I was not.

I became suddenly aware of every fake-boyfriend detail.

Her hand on my arm. The way she leaned toward me when someone spoke. The way she automatically gave me the cherry from her dessert because she knew I liked them.

None of those things required acting.

That was the terrifying part.

When we finally left, Emma handed me the car keys again.

The drive home was quieter.

Halfway there, I glanced at her.

“You still owe me something.”

She smiled without looking at me.

“Gas money?”

“A kiss.”

“Oh, that.”

“You forgot?”

“I was hoping you had.”

“Impossible. I have an excellent memory when contracts are involved.”

“You’re an architect.”

“We love documentation.”

She laughed.

I felt relieved just hearing it.

When we reached our street, I pulled into her driveway.

Neither of us moved immediately.

Emma looked toward her house, then toward mine.

“So,” she said.

“So.”

“You survived.”

“Barely. Your grandmother knows my financial profile. She’ll run a background check tomorrow.”

“Excellent.”

Emma reached for the door handle.

“Thanks, Noah.”

I should have said, “You’re welcome.”

Instead, I said, “Was that it?”

She looked back.

“What?”

“Tonight.”

Her expression softened.

“What do you mean?”

“Was I just convenient?”

The words came out more serious than I’d intended.

She released the door handle.

“No.”

“Then what was I?”

Emma was quiet.

“You were the person I knew wouldn’t make me feel stupid.”

That answer hurt and comforted me at the same time.

“For needing help. For everything.”

I looked at her.

She continued.

“I knew you’d make jokes. I knew you’d annoy me. I knew you’d probably tell my grandmother something inappropriate.”

“I was extremely respectful.”

“You asked if she wanted to marry you.”

“She started asking about my retirement account.”

Emma smiled.

Then it disappeared again.

“But I also knew you’d be kind.”

That silenced me.

“And I knew you’d never make me feel like I owed you anything.”

I thought about my ridiculous condition.

“Except one kiss.”

She laughed softly.

“Except that.”

“I was joking.”

“I know.”

I nodded.

“Good.”

Another silence.

Then she said, “Were you?”

I looked at her.

“Was I what?”

“Joking.”

Every sensible thought left my brain.

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Maybe 60%.”

Her mouth twitched.

“That’s a strangely specific percentage.”

“I work with measurements.”

“Right.”

She looked down at her hands, then back at me.

“What about now?”

I could hear my heartbeat.

“Now I’m down to maybe 12%.”

She laughed.

Then she stopped laughing because I wasn’t.

“Noah.”

“Emma, if we do this…”

She didn’t finish.

I knew exactly what she meant.

A kiss wasn’t complicated when the relationship was fake.

A real kiss between neighbors who saw each other every day?

That could change everything.

And she was leaving.

So I made the decision for both of us.

I opened my door.

“Good night, Emma.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

I got out of the car.

She followed.

“You’re leaving?”

“You’ve had wine. I’ll leave the keys inside.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I walked around the hood.

She stood facing me.

“I said good night.”

“I heard you.”

“Great.”

“You’re not going to kiss me?”

I stared at her.

“That sentence is extremely unfair.”

She folded her arms.

“You’ve been talking about it all night.”

“Because it was a joke.”

“Twelve percent.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t understand your math.”

“Neither do I anymore.”

She stepped closer.

“Why are you backing out?”

“Because you’re leaving.”

Emma went still.

“And because tonight started as pretend.”

“So?”

“So I don’t want the first time I kiss you to happen because Aunt Deborah yelled at us.”

Her lips curved.

“She would be devastated.”

“I’m willing to live with that.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

Then she reached up and straightened my tie.

It didn’t need straightening.

“I haven’t accepted the job yet.”

“You should.”

“There you go again.”

“Because it’s good for you.”

“What if I don’t want you deciding that?”

I blinked.

“I’m not deciding anything.”

“You keep telling me what I should do.”

“Because you want the job.”

“Yes.”

“Then take it.”

“And what if there’s another thing I want?”

Every nerve in my body woke up.

“What thing?”

Her fingers were still resting against my tie.

She looked directly into my eyes.

“You’re supposed to be smart.”

“I design kitchens, Emma. Work with me.”

She laughed.

Then finally, she said it.

“You.”

Everything inside me went quiet.

“I want you.”

I stared at her.

“And I’ve wanted you for a while.”

“How long?”

“Do you really need statistics right now?”

“Yes.”

“Since the gate.”

“The gate?”

“When you fixed it.”

“That was five months ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“You told me you liked my drill.”

“I panicked.”

I laughed.

“You flirted with my power tools because you panicked.”

“It was the best I had.”

“That may be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever told me.”

She hit my chest lightly.

“I’m trying to confess something.”

“Sorry. Continue.”

She took a breath.

“I was going to take the New York job and leave before anything happened between us.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought it would be easier.”

“For who?”

“Me.”

At least she was honest.

“And then my mom kept asking about my imaginary boyfriend.”

“So you upgraded him to me.”

“Terrible decision.”

“The worst.”

We were both smiling now, but something still bothered me.

“You knew this could make things harder.”

“Yes.”

“Then why ask?”

Emma looked at me.

“Because I wanted one night to know what it would feel like.”

The humor disappeared again.

“To be with me?”

She nodded.

That was simultaneously the sweetest and most frustrating thing she’d ever said.

“You could have asked me on a date.”

“You could have asked me too.”

“Fair.”

“I thought you only saw me as your incompetent neighbor.”

“I never thought you were incompetent.”

“I flooded your laundry room.”

“That was impressive, actually.”

“And you never gave me any indication.”

“I fixed your gate.”

“You fix everything.”

“I brought you soup when you were sick.”

“Neighbors do that.”

“I watched six episodes of that terrible dating show with you.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You said you liked it.”

“I lied for love.”

Emma laughed so loudly that someone across the street looked toward us.

Then she covered her mouth.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. This is going well for me.”

She lowered her hand.

“So what happens now?”

I knew what I wanted to say.

Don’t go.

Stay.

Choose me.

But that would make me exactly like Daniel. Another man asking Emma to fit her life around his plan.

So I said something else.

“You take the job.”

She sighed.

“Noah.”

“And I ask you on a real date.”

She stopped.

“What?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m leaving in three weeks.”

“Then we have three weeks. And after that, we figure it out.”

“You hate long distance.”

“My ex moved permanently. You’re going for six months.”

“Maybe longer.”

“Then we’ll figure out maybe longer when maybe longer happens.”

Emma stared at me.

“You make that sound simple.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because you just said you want me.”

Her cheeks turned pink.

“That was temporary insanity.”

“Too late. It’s legally binding.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Tomorrow, seven.”

“Where?”

“That’s boyfriend information.”

“Real boyfriend?”

I smiled.

“Hopefully.”

She took another small step forward.

“What about tonight?”

“What about it?”

“The contract.”

I pretended to think.

“I’m willing to waive the penalty.”

“There wasn’t a penalty.”

“There would have been.”

“Noah.”

“Yes?”

“I think I’m ready to approve clause three.”

My heart stumbled.

“There was no clause three.”

“There is now.”

She put one hand against my chest.

“And what does clause three say?”

Emma looked at my mouth, then at my eyes.

“That you can stop talking.”

So I did.

I leaned down slowly enough to give her every chance to change her mind.

She didn’t.

Her fingers curled lightly into my jacket, and I kissed her.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There were no fireworks, no music, no cheering relatives, just Emma and me standing between our houses under a porch light I’d been meaning to replace for three months.

But it felt more real than anything that had happened all evening.

I pulled back after a few seconds.

Emma stared at me.

“Well?”

I smiled.

“Well, what?”

“You’ve been requesting that all night.”

“I need time to evaluate.”

She laughed.

“Seriously?”

“I take contract fulfillment very seriously.”

“Fine.”

She turned toward her house.

I caught her hand.

“One problem.”

“What?”

“I may require a second sample.”

Her smile appeared slowly.

“You negotiated one kiss.”

“Circumstances have changed.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Quality assurance?”

“No.”

“Professional standards.”

“Noah.”

“I’m just saying—”

She kissed me.

That solved the argument.

When we finally separated, I said, “I win.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“You kissed me.”

“To make you stop talking.”

“That may become a recurring strategy.”

“Good night, Noah.”

“Seven tomorrow.”

She backed toward her door.

“Six-thirty.”

“Seven.”

“I get hungry.”

“Six-thirty.”

She smiled.

“Good night.”

I walked home and, for probably the first time in my adult life, I actually understood why people smiled at nothing.

The next morning, I woke up at 6:45.

Not because of an alarm.

Because someone was pounding on my front door.

I stumbled downstairs.

Emma stood outside holding two coffees.

“Morning.”

I stared at her.

“It is 6:45.”

“Yes.”

“On Saturday.”

“Yes.”

“Are you being chased?”

“No.”

“House fire?”

“No.”

“Medical emergency?”

“No.”

I opened the door wider.

“Then explain yourself.”

She held up a coffee.

“I brought peace offerings.”

I took it.

“Accepted.”

She walked inside like she’d done it a hundred times.

She had.

But suddenly everything felt different.

Yesterday she was my neighbor.

Now she’d kissed me twice.

Technically, I’d kissed her once and she’d kissed me once.

I had records.

Emma sat at my kitchen island.

“I emailed New York.”

That woke me up.

“And?”

“I accepted.”

I smiled.

“Good.”

She studied my face.

“You really mean that?”

“Of course.”

“I thought maybe after last night that you’d want me to turn it down.”

She nodded.

I leaned against the counter.

“I want you here.”

Her expression softened.

“But I want you to be happy more.”

She looked at the coffee in her hands.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“There he is.”

I walked around the island.

“Besides, six months isn’t forever.”

“You really want to try this?”

“Yes.”

“Even with me leaving?”

“Yes.”

“What if it’s hard?”

“It will be.”

“What if we hate long distance?”

“Then we’ll hate it together.”

Emma smiled.

“What if we fight?”

“We already fight.”

“Good point.”

“What if you meet some handsome New York event planner?”

“I’ll tell him my boyfriend owns a rubber mallet.”

“Powerful deterrent.”

She laughed.

Then she looked at me more seriously.

“And what if you meet someone?”

I stepped closer.

“Emma.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve lived next to you for 18 months.”

“I know.”

“I’ve had plenty of opportunities to meet someone.”

Her eyes stayed on mine.

“I wasn’t interested.”

She whispered, “Oh.”

“Very articulate.”

“Shut up.”

She smiled.

“So, are we actually doing this?”

I held out my hand.

“Emma Carter, will you officially become my inconveniently located girlfriend?”

She looked offended.

“Inconveniently located soon. That may be the worst romantic question anyone has ever asked.”

“Is that a yes?”

She put her hand in mine.

“Yes.”

Then she pointed at me.

“But we’re not telling my mother yet.”

“Why?”

“Because she’ll start planning.”

“Planning what?”

Emma stared at me.

“Do you really want the answer?”

I remembered Susan’s expression when she’d seen us together.

“No.”

“Exactly.”

Our first real date happened that evening.

Nothing spectacular.

I took her to a small Italian restaurant downtown.

Emma ordered something with mushrooms, even though she knew I hated mushrooms.

I accused her of testing our relationship.

She ate one slowly while maintaining eye contact.

It was deeply threatening.

After dinner, we walked for almost an hour.

No fake touching, no audience, no reason to perform.

When I held her hand, it was because I wanted to.

When she leaned into my shoulder, it was because she wanted to.

And when I kissed her outside her door, there was no negotiated limit.

Three weeks later, I drove Emma to the airport.

She cried.

I did not.

According to Emma, my eyes became suspiciously reflective.

I blame airport lighting.

Long distance was exactly as easy as I’d predicted, which is to say not at all.

We missed calls.

We argued once because she worked through a scheduled dinner video call.

She got angry when I tried to hide how stressed I was during a huge project deadline.

I got jealous of a coworker named Trevor for approximately 48 hours before discovering Trevor was 61 and had four grandchildren.

Emma has never allowed me to forget that.

But we learned.

We sent each other pictures of ordinary things.

Coffee, groceries, bad parking, her New York office, my increasingly tragic attempts to keep her hydrangeas alive.

At month two, I flew to New York.

At month three, she came home for a weekend.

At month four, we had our worst fight.

Her company offered to extend the project another six months.

She wanted it, and she was afraid to tell me.

When she finally did, I went quiet.

Emma immediately said, “This is what I was afraid of.”

“What?”

“That eventually you’d get tired of waiting.”

I wanted to say I wasn’t tired, but that would have been a lie.

I was tired.

I missed her.

I hated knowing that she was living a life 1,200 miles away from me.

But loving someone wasn’t the same as never feeling frustrated.

So I told her the truth.

“I am tired.”

Her face fell.

I continued.

“But I’m not tired of you.”

She looked at me.

“Those are different things.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want you resenting me.”

“I don’t.”

“What if I accept?”

“Then I complain dramatically and buy more plane tickets.”

She laughed through tears.

“Noah.”

“Emma.”

“Why aren’t you making this difficult?”

“Because your career isn’t something you’re doing to me.”

That silenced her.

I realized then that this was the difference she had needed.

Not somebody who didn’t care whether she stayed.

Somebody who wanted her to stay and still refused to make her feel guilty for going.

She accepted the extension, and three months later something changed.

Her company decided to open a permanent Denver office.

Emma was offered the position of regional event director.

She called me before signing anything.

“This isn’t because of you,” she warned.

“Romantic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I want the job.”

“Good.”

“And I want to come home.”

“Better.”

“And I want you.”

“Excellent. Keep going.”

She laughed.

“That’s everything.”

“You could add something about my appearance.”

“You look adequate.”

“Heartwarming.”

Emma returned to Denver seven months after she’d left.

Our families insisted on throwing her a welcome-home dinner.

And by families, I mean her family.

Mine had wisely remained uninvolved.

We went back to the same restaurant where we’d pretended to be dating.

Same room, same terrace, same grandmother.

Margaret approached me before dinner.

“So.”

I knew that tone.

“So?”

“You two still together?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She nodded approvingly.

“Credit score?”

I sighed.

“Still excellent.”

“Marriage plans?”

I nearly choked.

“Margaret, what? Can I finish my drink?”

She smiled.

“You’ve had seven months.”

Emma appeared behind her.

“Grandma, stop interrogating my boyfriend.”

Margaret looked at us.

“Boyfriend?”

Then she walked away, muttering something about young people wasting time.

Emma buried her face against my shoulder.

“I warned you.”

“You did.”

“She likes you.”

“She has a terrifying way of expressing affection.”

Emma took my hand.

We walked onto the terrace.

The same spot where she’d told me about New York.

The same spot where I’d realized I didn’t want one fake night with her.

“I have something for you,” she said.

She reached into her purse.

I became suspicious immediately.

She handed me a small folded piece of paper.

I opened it.

It was a handwritten contract.

“Fake Boyfriend Agreement: Revised.”

I laughed.

“You kept this joke alive for seven months.”

“Read clause three.”

I looked down.

“Clause three. Kissing is no longer limited to one per evening.”

I looked at her.

“This is legally sophisticated.”

“Thank you.”

“Any restrictions?”

“Reasonable use.”

“I disagree with that term.”

“Of course you do.”

I folded the paper and put it in my pocket.

“I’m keeping this.”

“I expected you would.”

Then I wrapped one arm around her waist.

Emma smiled.

“Noah.”

“Yes?”

“Everyone can see us.”

I looked through the windows.

Her mother was watching.

Lily was watching.

Margaret was definitely watching.

Even Richard had turned his chair.

I looked back at Emma.

“Good.”

And I kissed her.

This time, nobody had to ask.

Seven months earlier, I’d thought my condition was a joke.

I thought I was being clever.

I thought one kiss would make pretending to be Emma’s boyfriend more entertaining.

Instead, that ridiculous condition exposed something we’d both been avoiding.

We didn’t fall in love because we pretended to be a couple for one evening.

We fell in love because underneath all the jokes, the borrowed tools, the coffee, the terrible television shows, and the fake relationship, we’d already been quietly choosing each other for months.

We just needed one absurd Friday night to finally notice.

Emma still lives next door.

Technically, she refuses to sell her house because she says every healthy relationship requires strategic retreat space.

She spends most nights at mine anyway.

Her hydrangeas survived.

Barely.

She still borrows my tools.

She still doesn’t return them on time.

And whenever I complain, she reminds me that our entire relationship began because she asked for one favor.

I remind her that I agreed under very specific conditions.

Usually, she rolls her eyes.

Sometimes she kisses me just to stop me talking.

As promised, that strategy became remarkably effective.

A few weeks ago, we were sitting on my porch when she looked toward her old house and said, “You know, I’m starting to think asking you to be my fake boyfriend was actually a pretty good idea.”

I put down my coffee.

“Pretty good?”

“Fine.”

“Something else?”

“Excellent.”

“Thank you.”

“But your condition was terrible.”

“My condition changed your life.”

“My condition?”

“Our condition.”

“You demanded kissing privileges.”

“I negotiated.”

“You absolutely did not negotiate.”

I smiled.

“Would you change anything?”

Emma looked at me.

Then she leaned over and kissed me.

When she pulled away, she said, “Maybe one thing.”

“What?”

“I would have asked you six months earlier.”

And for once, I didn’t have a clever answer.

I just kissed her again because some contracts deserve to be renewed, and some neighbors are worth crossing the yard for.

If there’s one thing Emma and I learned, it’s that the right relationship doesn’t ask you to shrink your life just to make love easier.

Sometimes it simply gives you someone worth coming home to.