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

by Mariah Dietz

  Everyone falls back into a rhythm, side conversations picking up all around. Only six of the guys are here this early, and though I know them by name, position, and a list of stats, I don’t know them in the same way I do Arlo or even Lincoln.

  “You coming to the game next Friday, or do you have work?” Arlo asks.

  “I have to work, but I’ll be there.”

  “You coming to the party on Tuesday? Greek row, baby. It’ll be your first toga party.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe? I have class that night.”

  “Night?” Mom asks. “What class?”

  “Statistics.”

  “Do you know anyone in the class?” she asks. I know where her line of questioning is leading: my safety and the suggestion that I walk with someone to my car after class. Reasons like this remind me why having student loans up to my ears by attending another college I didn’t get a full ride to might have been worth it.

  “It’s still light when I get out.”

  “It won’t be in a few weeks.” Mom looks at Pax for backup.

  “Football night,” I interject. “Tonight, is all about football.”

  “You’re not going to have a social life unless you drop a few classes,” Pax says.

  “Especially with her awesome multitasking skills.” Mom looks pointedly at the half-filled bread basket in front of me.

  I reach for more bread at the same time Lincoln does, our knuckles colliding. I quickly withdraw my hand, the heat from his touch stinging like a physical burn. He looks at me, patience and humor twisting his lips into a smile.

  “Sorry,” I say, reaching for the bread farthest from him.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Arlo clears his throat. I feel his stare. It’s heavy and intentional, and I ignore it as dutifully as I do Lincoln’s hand as he helps finish piling up the bread. The baskets are beginning to fray around the edges, well-used over the years, but like many things in our house, they’re from the many years that my parents didn’t have much in the way of disposable income.

  We grew up with most of our friends and classmates having more than us. We afforded living in Seattle because my dad inherited his parents’ house after my grandma passed away. My parents both worked as teachers for years. Dad taught middle school social studies for two decades while juggling additional classes to earn his master’s degree. My mom being a teacher at a private school allowed us to attend where she taught—a school my parents could never have afforded otherwise. Though there’s nothing moral or fair about it, the years we attended private school significantly helped both Pax and I reach our goals. Money has a way of talking louder than principles and values. My parents were comfortably middle-class, making enough so that we never had to worry about having food or clothes, and though they couldn’t afford the latest and greatest toys that came out each fall, we always had gifts under the tree and took a road trip each summer. It didn’t really make a lot of difference to me—or any of us. Poppy’s house is four times the size of ours and everything is dark wood and stained-glass lamps. It reminds me of a library where you’re not supposed to touch anything or speak. Our friendship taught me the harsher side of money—the side that few discuss that involves lavish gifts to make up for time they never spend together.

  Dad worked toward becoming a dean for another eight years before landing the position at Brighton, and in that time, Mom started going back to school, working toward being a principal. Their salaries pole-vaulted, allowing them to remodel the fifties kitchen we had for much of my childhood, and then more of the house, expanding it so it finally felt large enough for a family of five, though I’m the only one still living at home.

  Dad enters from his office, humming an old rock song. “Okay. You guys eat all the vegetables and leave me the garlic bread.”

  “Oh, this is just the beginning,” I tell him, lifting the three reusable grocery bags Mom set back by the dishwasher that are filled with more loaves.

  Dad’s eyebrows jump. “All right, I guess I’m willing to let them each have a piece.”

  As I maneuver my way around Bobby and Hoyt, I bump into Arlo. He smiles, wrapping his arm around my neck. “I watched a nature documentary last night about dolphins.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “I fell asleep,” he admits.

  I laugh, and he quickly joins but then stops, his body growing rigid. I look up, cowering on instinct, expecting Paxton to be throwing something at Arlo again, but instead of a hurtling object, I find Derek, a smile on his angular face. His dark blond hair looks like fingers have been pulling at it, and his eyes shine as they dance across my face.

  “Hey, Raegan. I was hoping you’d be here.”

  “Nice to see you, Dean,” I say.

  His cheeks pull high as he laughs. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks. How are you?”

  “Better now.” His eyes are bright with humor and lust as his attention remains focused on me. The attentiveness is enough to cause an addiction. I can’t think of a time when a guy seemed so intent on reading my reactions and was able to block out the rest of the room—a very crowded and loud room, surrounded by his teammates and every incentive to block me out.

  Pax moves so he’s in my line of sight, harshly shaking his head. Mom watches, her attention slowly shifting between Pax and me before she asks Pax to help her carry some bottles of wine to the table.

  “He’s an asshole,” Arlo whispers, twisting away from me as Derek closes the gap between us.

  “What are you doing after the game tomorrow?” he asks.

  I shake my head, not having thought about it. I’ve generally spent Saturday nights with Poppy, and that’s the extent of my plans for this week as well.

  “There’s a party if you’re interested?”

  From the corner of my eye, I catch Lincoln staring at us, his attention heavy and intentional, making my pulse quicken with curiosity about their feud. “Yeah. Maybe,” I say, trying to make my response sound casual and less pleading.

  A party with Derek might be the exact thing I need to help recover from my ongoing crush on Lincoln.

  8

  I pull in a deep breath of the salty air, and pull my coat tighter. It does little to shield me from the cold. I often get tasked with helping with the study of whales at the aquarium. Though our aquarium doesn’t house either dolphins or whales, we are partners with several other local organizations and non-profits who study and protect them as well as other marine life. The team at our facility is led by Hans Schrober, and the love and passion he has for his job and helping the animals are so contagious I find myself engrossed with my time and effort spent helping his mission.

  He takes a team out to sea weekly, either to the Puget Sound or beyond, and this morning I’ve been asked to go out to study the very animal that inspired my degree when I was five and my parents had taken us for a vacation down to Sea World, California, where I came come face-to-face with an orca whale. I cried. Tears of joy and excitement and an entire plethora of emotions I couldn’t label then, and still can’t now, because when I get overwhelmed it’s like being in a room with Lincoln—words don’t come easily for me, and as the feelings build, they begin to spill over and fall down my cheeks. My parents were concerned, ushering me away because they assumed I was terrified. But I wasn’t afraid. Not even a little. Meeting that whale had just highlighted a path in my head that assured me I knew what I wanted to do. It took thirty minutes and two meltdowns until I convinced my parents to let me see the whale again, and then they had to take turns carting Maggie and Pax through the rest of the amusement park while the other stayed with me, watching the magnificent creature glide through the water, my mind taking in each detail and questioning them all, making me want to learn everything about orcas. I was torn when we watched them perform, amazed and quickly becoming obsessed with the animal.

  Once home with sand still in our shoes and hair and the sea breeze still clinging to our skin, my fami
ly began returning to their lives from pre-vacation, but I couldn’t. That day, those hours changed something inside of me, and my passion to learn everything about orcas hasn’t waned a bit in thirteen years.

  Today we’re at the Sound. In the winter months, Gray Whales pass through here on their migratory route, and orcas are commonly seen during the summer months. Blue, humpback, and minke whales are also seen here occasionally. But today, our focus is on the pod of bottlenose dolphins that made this their home several year ago, surprising scientists and tourists alike.

  “There’s Blue,” Lois Chavis says, pointing southward.

  I stand on my toes, my heart racing with the same drunk feeling I get each time I know I’m going to witness a marine animal. Blue is easily distinguishable from his pod by a long scar marring the left side of his face and body.

  Grady Fell, the head of the aquarium’s orca research team, leans to grab the microphone and recording device we use to record and study their calls, lowering it into the water, while Lois continues to peer across the horizon, searching for signs of the orcas.

  “Anything?” Joe, another researcher on our team, asks, peering through a pair of binoculars across the choppy water beside her.

  “I don’t see J, K, or L.” Lois wipes her hand across her brow, her frown marring her beautiful face. She is part of the tribal team committed to helping the orcas. She joins us regularly in an attempt to count the whales in each pod, affectionately referred to as J, K, and L pods, and prays each time that we’ll see them thriving. Mostly though, Lois prays for a baby. The orcas haven’t had a baby calf in nearly ten years, and their population continues to dwindle.

  “It’s the pipeline.” Grady removes his baseball cap, flips it forward, and puts it back on. A few years ago, the Canadian government teamed up with an oil company to build a new pipeline which left giant tankers driving directly through the known orca habitat.

  “We can’t blame them alone,” Kenny, a team member from the aquarium, says. “Pollution, contamination, lack of food, over fishing, whale watchers, fisherman…” he cuts the list off there, though I’ve heard him rattle off at least a couple dozen other reasons in the past.

  Lois places a hand on my shoulder, her brown eyes connecting with mine. There’s a shared moment of disappointment that fades and is replaced by hope. Orcas have long been a symbol for the tribal community, and Lois is determined to make sense of what’s been ailing them so she can help their numbers grow again.

  “Let’s take some readings,” Grady says, lowering the flaps on his Gore-Tex hat that looks like a sun hat but is mostly used to shield out the mist and rain that often comes with living in the Pacific Northwest, unless we go far enough out into the Pacific. Strangely, the ocean is an entirely different beast the farther you get from the shore—one that seems inviting and almost surreal. It can draw you out, exposing clear, calm waters that aren’t hit hard by clouds and rain like much of Seattle.

  Lois and I move about the small boat to gather the instruments, measuring the noise levels in the water, the temperature, and take a few water samples which Lois will carefully survey in her lab.

  Back at the aquarium, I help Greta Alsman, our chief resident marine biologist. If there was ever a woman who should be wearing a cape and mask, it would be Greta. She’s a superhero with a mission to save and protect animals. Her vast knowledge and cheery disposition make her my favorite person to be around here at the aquarium.

  “I think Snoopy has missed you,” Greta tells me, as we stop by Snoopy, our male Giant Pacific Octopus who spends his days shocking the visitors of the aquarium as he gracefully moves throughout his enclosure, rarely trying to hide like so many octopuses try to do.

  I chuckle. “That’s only because I’ve been doing his four o’clock feedings lately.”

  Greta releases a loud laugh. It’s one of her trademarks, and it’s easily one of my favorite laughs because it’s so loud and robust and uninhibited. “And probably because one of the new volunteers called him a squid today.”

  I fake astonishment. Snoopy is often referred to as a squid, and it’s become an inside joke used in multiple references in the aquarium. “How rude.”

  Greta laughs again. “Did you guys have any luck today?”

  “We saw Blue, but he was far away today and didn’t come close. Hans seemed happy about it. He’s been worried he’ll get hurt by all the tourist boats.”

  She sighs. “It makes our job a lot harder when we can’t get close to them.”

  “We saw some new sea lions, though, and a few porpoises.”

  “That’s excellent. Cara will be happy about the sea lions.” She leads me to the otters. They’re her passion, and since one of the brothers has been sick, they’ve been a top priority of hers. “How’s school going?” she asks. “I heard you took on some extra credits, and I’m really impressed. The budget proposals were submitted last week, and I submitted a part-time role I think you would be perfect for. It would hopefully evolve into a full-time position once you graduate.”

  My attention snaps to her, my heart stumbling and tripping over my words as I imagine being able to quit my job at the coffee shop so I can be here and get paid. I don’t have time to respond or tell her about the shock of seeing over three-hundred students in one classroom, because our vet, Cara, appears with her medical kit, ready to inspect our sick sea otter, Grover.

  “There’s my favorite grandkid,” Gramps says as I open the front door. “I was wondering if you were trying to avoid me?”

  “Apparently, I need to try harder.”

  Gramps has my second favorite laugh. It’s deep and rumbly, like an old car engine, but without the pitch, and like now, it always makes me smile. “You smell like fish.”

  “You smell like nachos.”

  He grins, cocking a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “Your mom’s cooking.”

  “Good. I’m starving.”

  “They didn’t share their fish with you?”

  I raise both palms, fingers spread, and reach for Gramps. He grabs a throw pillow from the couch and raises it as a shield. “I was kidding.”

  With a chuckle still echoing in my lungs, I head for the kitchen in search of nachos.

  “Hey,” Mom says, her arms buried in dishwater up to her elbows. “How was your morning?”

  I take her question as an invitation to sit across from her and unload the weight off my chest, feeling far too close to the overwhelmed breaking point that still leads to tears. “Greta told me that she proposed a new position at the aquarium she thinks I’d be great for.”

  Mom looks up, her eyes bright. “Seriously?”

  I nod, my heart beginning to thump again with excitement.

  “That would be amazing! When will you find out more?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t really get the chance to discuss it, but she said it’s in the budget for next year, so it will be a few months at least.”

  “That’s great.”

  I nod again. “I mean, we have a dozen volunteers—so I really shouldn’t consider it mine yet.”

  “You do so much for the aquarium. Greta loves you. Maybe you could pick up something extra to help pad your resume?”

  “I don’t know if I can. Dad wants me to add a business class, and right now, I feel like my entire day is scheduled down to the second, and I’m worried that if I continue working with Hans they’re going to ask me to be a member of the team studying the whales and dolphins, and I really want to work with Grady and Lois and the orcas.”

  “You can do this,” Mom says. “If anyone can juggle it all, it’s you.” Her smile offers reassurance, but for some reason, it accomplishes the opposite. “Let’s have some lunch, and then you can cash in on your mani/pedi before the game tonight. We can get coffee. It will be fun.”

  “I can’t,” I tell her.

  “Can’t what?”

  “I have to work.”

  “Tonight?”

  I glance toward the microwave. “I
n two hours.”

  Mom blinks several times, like she’s finally hearing my earlier words. “Do you think you took on too much?”

  “Probably.”

  Mom laughs, her brow ruffled. “Should we do something about it?”

  “I can’t. Hans said I really need to be taking the Organic Chemistry class, and if it could help me get the new position…”

  I can tell she wants to say more. It’s her inner teacher and mom warring about education and sanity. It’s a struggle I’ve witnessed for as long as I can remember—her wanting us to do our best and put learning first while also wishing to shield us from exhaustion and the stress and anxiety that has become mutually exclusive with the institution of learning.

  She kisses my head, her maternal side taking a back seat for now. “Well, let’s make some nachos. Grandpa helped me get everything cut up.”

  Dad does most of the cooking in our house. When I was six, he fell off the roof while trying to repair a leak. He broke his leg and had short-term memory loss that prevented him from being able to teach for a couple of years. He struggled with depression—not feeling like he was contributing or working toward a goal. It didn’t help that he’d taken on chores around the house, had dyed or shrunk half the laundry, and that we all complained about eating the cheese and salami sandwiches he made every night for dinner. During that time, Mom and Dad fought a lot. Subjects about how late Mom worked and the height of the grass and how much Mom had spent on groceries began to arise and quickly became hair triggers, bringing a conversation from easy and casual to intense and thorny in a split second.

  Maggie moved in with a friend and told them she refused to return until they started counseling. I think they both knew it was an inevitable, and while they might have blamed coercion at the time, they needed it. Dad began going independently first, and then they started going together. Three months later, Dad and I went to the library where he checked out several cookbooks, and within weeks we went from cheese and salami sandwiches to chicken cordon bleu.