I Hired My Annoying Neighbor To Be My Fake Boyfriend For A Wedding

The invitation was waiting for me, propped against the chrome fruit bowl on my kitchen counter where my mail always went. It stood out from the usual collection of bills and architectural journals—a thick, cream-colored envelope addressed in elegant, looping calligraphy. My cousin Sarah’s wedding. My stomach twisted into a familiar, tight knot. I didn't even have to open it to know what the RSVP card would look like, with its polite, damning little line: Name of Guest.

My thumb traced the raised lettering of my name. For three years, at every holiday, every birthday, every christening, I had been Clara-plus-none. The sympathetic looks from my aunts, the gentle pats on the arm from my grandmother, the dreaded, "So, anyone special in your life yet, sweetie?" from my mother—it was a gauntlet of well-meaning scrutiny that left me feeling hollowed out and defective by the end of the night.

This time, it was already starting. My phone, lying face down on the granite, buzzed with a vindictive persistence. I knew without looking who it was. Aunt Carol, the self-appointed matriarch and chief inquisitor of the family. I flipped the phone over. Three unread messages.

3:15 PM: Clara, darling! Just making sure you got home from work safely.

3:17 PM: I assume Sarah’s beautiful invitation has arrived? So thrilling!

3:21 PM: Will you be bringing a plus-one this time? I do hope so. It’s about time you found a nice young man.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the pressure building behind them. It wasn't just a question; it was a judgment. A confirmation of her long-held theory that something was fundamentally wrong with me. I was too focused on my career, too particular, too… much. And yet, not enough.

I could already picture the wedding. Me, sitting at the designated singles table, trying to make pleasant conversation with some distant cousin’s awkward friend while Aunt Carol watched from across the room, her expression a perfect blend of pity and disapproval. I would have to endure Daniel, my smarmy ex, parading his new, bubbly girlfriend around. I would have to smile through clenched teeth as my grandmother asked, for the tenth time, why a pretty, successful girl like me couldn't find a partner.

The pristine order of my apartment, usually a source of calm, suddenly felt suffocating. The clean lines and minimalist decor seemed to mock my messy, complicated internal world. I couldn't do it. I couldn't face another family interrogation alone. A wave of pure, undiluted desperation washed over me, so potent it made me dizzy. I needed a shield. A decoy. I needed a boyfriend, and I needed one now.

My hands, desperate for a task, found the flour and sugar. Baking. It was my release valve, a precise science of measurements and instructions that usually centered me. But tonight, there was no precision. I dumped ingredients into a bowl with reckless abandon, my movements jerky and angry. A half-full bag of flour tipped, spilling a white drift across the pristine black granite. I didn’t care.

As if on cue, the floor beneath my feet began to vibrate. A deep, rhythmic thumping from the apartment below. Leo. The musician. His late-night band practices were the one variable in my perfectly controlled life that I could not eliminate. Usually, it was a low-grade annoyance. Tonight, combined with the phantom voice of Aunt Carol in my head, the pounding bass line felt like a personal attack.

I slammed a metal mixing bowl onto the counter, the clang echoing in the kitchen. The thumping from downstairs stopped. A moment of blessed silence. Then, a firm knock on my front door.

I froze, my hands coated in a sticky dough. Of course. He was coming to complain about my noise. The irony was almost funny. Wiping my hands on my already-ruined jeans, I stalked to the door and pulled it open.

There he was. Leo. He was taller than I’d realized, leaning against the doorframe with an easy confidence that I found both irritating and, to my shame, a little compelling. His dark hair was a mess of artful tangles, and a small, amused smile played on his lips. He was wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans with a hole in one knee. Chaos personified.

“Everything okay up here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that was much smoother than the noise his guitar made. “Sounded like you were forging a broadsword.” His eyes drifted past me to the disaster zone of my kitchen, and his smile widened.

I opened my mouth to deliver a sharp retort about his own contributions to the building’s noise pollution, but the words caught in my throat. My gaze snagged on him—on his easy charm, his handsome face, the simple fact that he was a living, breathing, unattached man standing in my doorway. And my brain, short-circuiting from a lethal combination of anxiety, sugar, and desperation, made a leap that was utterly insane.

The filter between my thoughts and my mouth disintegrated. “I’ll pay you,” I blurted out.

Leo’s eyebrows shot up. The amused smirk vanished, replaced by genuine confusion. “Pay me for what? To stop practicing? Because I can’t, I’ve got a gig—”

“No,” I cut him off, my heart hammering against my ribs. I could feel a faint dusting of flour on my cheek. “Not for that. I need you to come to my cousin’s wedding with me. I need you to be my boyfriend.” The words hung in the air between us, absurd and horrifying. “For the weekend. I’ll pay you. Two thousand dollars.”

Leo stared at me, his face a perfect blank. For a long, silent moment, the only sound was the hum of my refrigerator and the frantic thumping of my own blood in my ears. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. The sheer, mortifying insanity of what I’d just said washed over me, cold and sharp. I had just offered to hire my downstairs neighbor, a man whose name I barely knew, to be my fake boyfriend.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. It started small, but it grew until a low, deep laugh escaped him. It wasn’t a mocking sound; it was one of pure, unadulterated amusement. He leaned his head back against the doorframe, still laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Wow,” he finally managed, shaking his head as he pushed himself upright. He stepped past me, into my apartment, and I was too stunned to stop him. His presence seemed to fill the entire space, making my meticulously organized kitchen feel small and cluttered. He surveyed the flour-dusted chaos, then looked back at me, his dark eyes glittering with an expression I couldn’t quite read. It was a mix of humor and something else, something sharper. Intrigue.

“Two thousand dollars,” he repeated, his voice soft. He ran a hand through his messy hair. “That’s a very generous offer, Clara.”

Hearing him say my name felt strangely intimate. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of the sticky dough on my jeans and the dusting of flour I could feel on my cheek. “It’s a… difficult family,” I mumbled, feeling the need to justify the absurdity.

“I bet.” He took another step closer, and I had to fight the instinct to retreat. He was close enough now that I could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap beneath something warmer, more uniquely him. “But I don’t want your money.”

My head snapped up. “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry, I just—”

“I’ll do it,” he said, cutting off my flustered apology. My heart gave a painful lurch. He was actually considering it. “But not for cash. I have a condition.”

I waited, holding my breath.

“I have a gig next Thursday night at The Viper Room,” he said, his gaze steady and direct. “My band. You have to come. You have to stay for the whole set, you can’t complain about the noise, and afterward, you have to give me your honest, unfiltered feedback.”

I stared at him. Of all the things I had expected, this wasn’t one of them. Enduring an hour of his deafening music in a crowded bar versus facing Aunt Carol alone? It wasn’t even a choice. “That’s it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “That’s the price?”

“That’s the price,” he confirmed. “My performance for your performance. Deal?”

He extended his hand. It was a large hand, with long fingers and calluses I could see on his fingertips, likely from his guitar. After a second’s hesitation, I placed my hand in his.

The contact was like a low-voltage shock. His skin was warm and unexpectedly rough against my own. His grip was firm, enveloping my hand completely. He didn’t just shake it; he held it for a moment too long, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles. I felt the sensation travel straight up my arm, a warm pulse that settled low in my stomach. My breath caught. I looked up from our joined hands to his face. He was watching me, his dark eyes intense, the earlier amusement gone, replaced by that same sharp, focused look. The air between us grew thick and heavy, charged with a sudden, unspoken awareness. It was no longer a business transaction. It was something else entirely.