Bending the Rules: A Brother's Best Friend Romance: The Rules Duet (The Dating Playbook Book 1)

by Mariah Dietz

  He’s too far away, and my brother is standing too close to confirm it, but I swear Lincoln’s looking directly at me.

  I swallow, staring back.

  “See,” Pax whispers. “Trust me. You don’t want to deal with dating an athlete.” His arm around my shoulders tightens, and he begins to turn, leaving me to follow him, my head on a swivel as I try to watch Lincoln’s reaction.

  The last thing I see before I turn toward the math building is Lincoln flashing a smile to the stranger.

  2

  I should heed Paxton’s warning. After all, I know the truth: athletes are as bad as rock stars when it comes to the disposal of women. Too often, they think they’re above it all—relationships, school, laws set forth by state and even those we privately enforce with our own company, like decency and respect.

  Tonight, I have no doubt I’m about to see all the social laws being broken at our first frat party. I tried to say no, told Poppy I’d rather hit up our favorite Chinese restaurant over on Fifth Street where they constantly play eighties movies, which somehow makes eating drunken noodles all the better. But, Poppy reminded me of my goal for this year, my oath to get over Lincoln, and suddenly I found myself agreeing to come, entering the address into my phone so I’d have directions for when I got home and changed.

  I should have waited for Poppy. She had to work this afternoon, but swore she’d get off early and insisted I come and scope it out. She thinks that because I’m a born extrovert, I thrive in these situations. Though now, I’m realizing that sometimes when thrown into the thick of it, I might have more introvert in me than I realized.

  “Hey!”

  I fight the impulse to turn around. I’ve been here for twenty minutes and have turned no less than a dozen times when hearing someone yell out a greeting in hopes it’s someone I might know or recognize. Instead, I look like a moron, because no one is directing the reception to me.

  “Hey!” The voice calls again, and then a hand closes around my elbow.

  I turn and discover Arlo, a full cup in one hand and a wide smile on his face. If I didn’t know Lincoln, I might have a crush on Arlo. Between his subtle east coast accent, olive skin, and instant smile the guy has all the qualities to be swoon-worthy, except that he gets distracted by every skirt that walks in front of him.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  His grin is equal parts teasing and mischievous. “Tracking you down. Pax was concerned you guys would get drunk, and someone would take advantage of you.”

  I sigh. “I figured as much.” I stand on my toes, looking around for Paxton. “He’s being ridiculous. I don’t need a chaperone.”

  Arlo isn’t listening to me, though. His attention is lost in the crowds of people. “I love the beginning of the school year.” He rubs his palms together. “Freshmen think we're gods, and sophomores and juniors are struggling with self-confidence and are willing to sleep with any guy who looks their way.”

  “Boy, you sure know how to make a girl feel important.”

  Arlo laughs. “Except for you, of course. “

  “Of course,” I echo.

  “What time is Poppy supposed to get here?” he asks, his attention tracing over every female in sight.

  “Soon. You can go. Tell Paxton I’m fine.”

  “That's okay. I'd like to keep my left nut intact.”

  “Paxton is all talk. Want the numbers of my exes? I promise they're all still alive.”

  “But do they have all their original teeth and limbs?”

  A tall blond guy with dark eyes and a devious grin walks past, his gaze fixed on me so long he has to turn his head.

  “Okay,” I say, shoving Arlo away. “You're scaring away all the guys. Time for you to get lost.”

  “Don't give Pax a reason to kill me, all right?” he calls over one shoulder, a brunette already in his sights.

  I don't bother with a response because he's already out of earshot. I take a deep breath and wander farther into the house. With my mother teaching at my high school and my brother being an all-state athlete, my aunt being the chief of police, and my dad being a dean, I wear a prominent yield sign around my neck, and the damn thing only lights up when any of my family members are present. Deterrent is an understatement. I've been ready and willing to lose my virginity since turning seventeen, and I’m pretty sure the only way I’m ever going to lose it is to a stranger in another state.

  My first boyfriend, Ben Kroger, and I dated summer of my sophomore year. He'd been ready to sleep together, but I hadn't. Instead, I broke up with him, and that fall, I learned he had been dating someone else the entire time we dated.

  My second boyfriend was Simon Copper. He was a good second boyfriend. He carried my books, called every night at eight-thirty, and always had good breath thanks to his obsessive need of chewing gum. He moved to Arizona over Thanksgiving break my junior year. I cried. A lot.

  My third boyfriend, Jamie Marten, he was, well… a mistake. We won’t go there.

  My fourth boyfriend, Zach Webb, lived in a neighboring town, my family history unknown and his interest in me high. Unfortunately, his interest dropped like a gavel when my aunt pulled him over and arrested him for drinking under the influence, underage drinking, open container, and reckless intent. It was probably good that he ended things because when my parents found out, they were livid and nearly grounded me because of our affiliation.

  And the fifth and final entrant in my dating history is Owen Graham. He was hot but ridiculous and needy like most high school boys. He shoved his hands up my shirt, and grazed my nipples, then pinched them so hard it drew tears. I dumped him the following week, and the very next day, he was working to swallow Brianna Tizznec's face.

  My dating history can be located somewhere south of Hell. But this year is going to be different. Better. Epic.

  With my chin held high, I stroll past the kegs of beer, pretending I have a purpose and destination, even though I don't.

  “Hey,” a guy says, stepping forward, his hand loosely circling my wrist.

  He smiles when I stop and looks nearly giddy when I grin. “I'm Johnny.” He places a hand on his chest, like I need the explanation.

  “Raegan,” I tell him. “It's nice to meet you.”

  He leans closer. “Are you a freshman?”

  I consider Arlo's assessment of freshman and contemplate lying. Then, I think about the long list of reasons that I’m here tonight, including making new friends, being single, and wanting to make the most out of my college experience—not to mention finding a new path, a fork in the road, or more preferably a freeway to get my feelings and thoughts far from Lincoln. Maybe this guy's smile and hot skin could burn away those harbored feelings, leaving only the remnants of Lincoln’s memory in the recesses of my mind. I tilt my chin higher and smile. “I am. Are you?”

  Johnny flashes a smile, the dimple in his chin catching my eye. “I'm a junior.”

  I think I’m supposed to ask him something personal, something flirty, something besides the mundane basics like where he's from and what his major is—something that will differentiate me from every other girl he’s met.

  Unfortunately, I’m not that original.

  “I saw you walk in with Arlo. You guys…?” he smiles coyly.

  I return the smile, leaning forward as well. “Are we what?” I know what he’s asking. Know that he’s waiting for me to deny Arlo and I are together, but I’ve never been a fan of trailing off sentences. They beg of misplaced apologies and misinterpretations.

  “You guys together?” His eyebrows rise with the question.

  I study him a moment. Was that a leading question for a hookup? Make sure the other person is single so you can act without regrets.

  “Sanders!” a girl screams, stumbling forward. Her tank top is at least a size too small, and her shorts are even tinier. Her hair is striped with shades of blonde, and her cat painted eyes are glassy from alcohol. “I want a piggy back ride.”

  I
take a step back, watching his attention shift to her cleavage.

  “You can ride me anytime.” He grins like this is sexy.

  She giggles.

  I frown. Encouragement is the last thing this guy needs. She climbs him like a tree, and his face brightens before he turns and gallops, making a horrible impression of horse sounds.

  Is this normal? Was he even flirting with me?

  I elect to bury the incident somewhere between that time I ripped my track shorts while trying to hop a fence and my entire freshman PE class saw my underwear and the summer of eighth grade when Evan Springer called every night for two weeks, then suddenly stopped and began dating Kim Kelly two days later.

  “Speaking on behalf of all guys, I’d like to assure you he is not the norm. Some of us do have manners, can speak in complete sentences, and won’t add crude jokes to every sentence.” A guy with dark blond hair and a friendly smile tips his cup toward Johnny. He’s cute, not in the same manner as Lincoln, who you picture on the front of a bodice-ripping book, but rather like a guy you’d find on the shiny pages of a magazine, modeling expensive clothes.

  “Just some?” I ask.

  “Maybe on occasion…” he smiles. “Less occasionally if you're Johnny, I’m guessing.” As if on cue, Johnny makes a whining sound mid-gallop and straightens, nearly losing his passenger.

  “I have a feeling you're right.”

  “I'm Derek,” he says

  “Like Derek and the Dominos?”

  He shrugs, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Derek and the Dominos? Do I want to know what that is?”

  I shrug. “A who. They were a band. A blip on Eric Clapton’s timeline.” I shake my head, wishing I hadn’t blurted out the original question. No one knows who Derek and the Dominos are except my mom, who plays their single album continuously. And mentioning her right now would make me seem only stranger.

  “You’re a music buff, and you aren’t dating Johnny. You keep getting better and better.”

  My cheeks pull into a grin that he matches and then raises. His eyes are a caramel brown, freckled with darker hues and curtained by thick lashes that match his mussed hair. His looks are subtler than Lincoln’s, but the longer I look at him, the more persistent and prevalent they become.

  “I'm Raegan.”

  “Raegan,” he repeats my name. “I don't think I've ever met a Raegan, and I don’t know any bands with that name in the title.” He chuckles. It’s a nice sound, warm and easy. “Would you like something to drink?” He lifts a red Solo cup filled with red punch that has likely been spiked.

  I don’t intend to drink it, after all, though his smile and laugh seem genuine, I don’t know that he wouldn’t put something in the cup. However, I’m willing to accept it. Hold it like a promise so I can learn more about him.

  My fingers wrap around the cup, but before I can take it, someone else reaches for it and pulls it away, taking my attention as well. Lincoln steps beside me, his gaze on Derek as he lifts his chin in greeting. My heart falters and then begins to skip wildly in my chest. This is the first time I’ve been around him at a party, and my thoughts are spinning faster than I can process them as I picture him dancing, kissing me, drinking, kissing me, laughing, kissing me. The temperature seems to rise twenty degrees, making the already warm house nearly unbearable.

  “Hey! What's up, man?” Derek extends a hand that Lincoln shakes once. It's casual, but too quick. There’s tension between the two that distracts me and has me staring at Lincoln for several seconds longer than I should.

  “You guys know each other?” I ask.

  Lincoln doesn’t meet my inquiring stare, keeping his focus solely on Derek. “Our new teammate, transferred from Texas State.”

  My eyebrows rise and my mouth falls open. “Oh. You … you’re on the football team?”

  Derek turns his attention to me, a wide smile gracing his lips and light brown eyes. “You like football?” he asks.

  I kind of hate that he appreciates my knowing he’s a football player. It only confirms he’s more like Arlo and less like my desired boyfriend.

  “Derek here is the new wide receiver. The one no one knows about,” Lincoln interjects, waving his hand with the cup of punch toward Derek, then taking a long drink as he cocks his chin up another notch.

  Derek raises his chin, indignation touching the corners of his eyes, which pinch for a second before he laughs. “When your family pays for a new wing of the library, it’s tough to get out of the spotlight. Am I right? But, with a new wide receiver on the field, we’ll see if you can manage to keep it.” He doesn’t look at me, but Lincoln.

  There’s something between them, something that has each of them seemingly lifting a leg to mark their territory, though neither has any ties to me, leading me to deduce there’s definitely a feud occurring between them on the field.

  “She’s Lawson’s kid sister.” Lincoln stands straighter as he punctuates the words.

  Kid. The word makes me wince.

  Derek pulls his chin back, looking at me again. “Paxton Lawson? I thought you were older?”

  I shake my head. “We have an older sister.”

  He smiles. “You look nothing alike.”

  “Really? Most people say the opposite.” We do look alike, though Pax and our older sister Margaret, who we often refer to as Maggie, arguably look more alike. Our eyes are a similar shape and color, and we’re both left-handed. We’re told we’re expressive, and if I give as much away as Pax does, it means you know most of my thoughts with a single glance. We’re both blond, though my hair’s a few shades lighter, I missed on the height genes that both he and Maggie inherited. I’m a little on the short side while they’re both on the tall end.

  “He’s just—”

  “Going to kick your scrawny ass if you even consider it,” Lincoln interrupts him, taking another swig from his glass.

  I glare at him. “Don’t you have something better to do? Someone to see?” Under different circumstances, I’d be a giddy, nervous wreck to have Lincoln warning a guy away. This is something I’ve dreamed of for years. Literally years. But, this is not how I’d imagined it. Not doing my brother’s bidding.

  Lincoln shakes his head. “I really don’t.”

  Again, I might be flattered if he were looking at me instead of Derek.

  Derek seems to stand taller, returning the same challenging stare.

  I don’t bother waiting to find out what the two are really fighting about or why. I might care later tonight when my thoughts all roam to Lincoln like they do at the end of every day, but right now, my ego is leading me toward writhing bodies and inviting smiles.

  I check my phone again for a text or missed call from Poppy, and when I don’t see one, I head for the back door so I can call her. I find a switch on the wall beside the door and flip it on. The area is small, lighting up a fenced back yard that’s filled with upside down coolers and a canoe. The air is cool as I step outside, hinting at fall. The days are still warm, but the nights are getting cold. I know I’ll be regretting not bringing a sweater on my way home.

  Poppy answers on the third ring. “I know. I know. I just couldn’t figure out what to wear. I’m sorry. I’m almost there.”

  “Everyone’s going to be drunk by the time you get here.”

  She tries to laugh, but I know it’s not genuine. It’s a nervous habit. She’s likely struggling with regret and still not happy with what she chose to wear.

  “I’m kidding.” It’s only a half-lie. At the very least, I’ll be sober.

  “Are there lots of hot guys?”

  The urge to tell her about Lincoln tickles across my tongue as I recall the details I hadn’t appreciated as they were happening: the savory scent of his cologne, the timbre of his voice, the way his gaze had swept over me. My heart thrums.

  “Raegan?”

  “Uh … yeah…”

  “You had to think about it?”

  “No. I mean…” I clear my throat. “
There’s a ton of people here. There’s a lot of shaggy guys. Crazy hair and long beards. It’s still in.”

  “I’m still not sure I like that look. It kind of spells laziness.”

  “They’re guys. It comes with the territory regardless of the hair and beard.”

  Poppy laughs. Her little brother, Dylan, is too young to live up to his full lazy potential. “Okay. I just parked.” Her car door slams in the background. “I had to park like three blocks away.” A cat screeches. “This is kind of creepy.”

  “It’s not creepy. Just dark, and you’re nervous. I’ll keep talking with you and head that way.” I lean forward to look past the shrubs that surround the small porch, locating a gate in the fence.

  “Have you seen any rugby players?”

  I chuckle, closing the latch behind me. “I haven’t studied the pictures you sent me close enough to know who they are.” My best friend likes to plan and prepare for everything, which only skims the surface of why she’s gone to such lengths to orchestrate meeting the rugby team. Like the Titanic hitting the iceberg, her interest in the rugby team is clear and obvious—it’s what’s under the surface though that has her so insistent. The broken heart she’s trying to nurse and avoid with a six-pack because she refuses to talk about her ex-boyfriend who railroaded her heart.

  “Don’t fail me now. I was told they’re going to be here. Nick for you, Blaine for me. They’re best friends. We’ll have weddings a few weeks apart, buy houses next door to each other, and raise our babies together. It’ll be beautiful.”

  “Unless he’s a mouth breather. I don’t want mouth breathing babies.”

  “Have you seen him? Trust me, you’ll get over the mouth breathing.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m a light sleeper.”

  Poppy giggles, and I can hear it echo down the street. She appears beneath a streetlight, and I hang up.

  “I should have put on more deodorant,” I tell her, rolling my shoulders as she catches up to me.