Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone Mariah Dietz (best novels to read .txt) 📖

to know way too much about your life, your family, and your brother’s illustrious decisions. The only thing that might be worse would be dating your best friend’s brother—thankfully for me, my best friend’s brother is eleven.

Therefore, universal laws, fate, karma, sibling code, and every other fictional or otherwise belief ought to ensure my brother’s best friend look okay-ish at worst and troll-ish at best. This was my experience for the first sixteen years of my life. My brother, Paxton, is two years older than me, and his childhood best friend, Caleb, has a red Brillo Pad for hair, two-million freckles, and is so painfully awkward it’s endearing.

Then, Paxton started at Brighton University in Seattle, Washington, where our dad is the Dean of Business, and he was quickly deemed a God because of his skills as a quarterback on the football field. And my world went to hell.

Fate stuck her big, ugly middle finger up and has been saluting me with it since. Maybe it’s because I lied to my mom about the dent in the back of her car that actually did happen when I’d borrowed it and illegally drove my best friend, Poppy Anderson, to the mall. Maybe it was because I'd pierced my naval when I was thirteen after paying a stranger twenty bucks to sign the release form. Or, maybe it was because fate had taken it easy on me for the first sixteen years of my life and decided I hadn’t shown enough appreciation. Because the day Paxton brought Lincoln Beckett over to our family’s house for the first time, fate waved her ‘fuck you, Raegan’ flag so high you could see it across the Pacific.

Lincoln, AKA the President, was well over six-feet with broad shoulders and corded biceps. That night, his dark hair was mussed in the most mesmerizing way, and his dark eyes were intense and watchful as Pax introduced him to. As though his shockingly good looks weren’t enough, it turned out Lincoln was also armed with a quick smile and sharp wit that made his brown eyes shine with humor.

Meeting him had me forgetting I’d been crushing on senior Michael Porter for three months—hell, it had me forgetting my own name.

To add injury to insult, I’d begun my period, and my skin was breaking out. I’d already switched my contacts for glasses, my face was scrubbed clean, and I was wearing baggy sweats to complete my homeless appearance. Had it been Caleb, I wouldn’t have even blinked, but the sight of Lincoln standing in the kitchen where I was helping mom finish dinner had me wishing I had an invisibility cloak or at least an excuse to leave.

Paxton and Lincoln moved out together a month later, and though Pax returned home frequently for hot meals and laundry, Lincoln only came by a few times, leaving me to lust after him mostly by memory and occasionally seeing him when I’d stop by the house the two of them rented along with Caleb and Arlo, another teammate who I’d also be fine by Pax being best friends with.

But, this year, things are going to change. Because this year, I’m a freshman at Brighton University, and gone are the days of me fantasizing about Lincoln Beckett, the starting wide receiver and highly acclaimed football player with a killer smile. The man who’s so frequently on the news that he’s amassed zillions of fans and admirers, my parents included. This year, I’m sticking to the rules.

“Maybe I should have worn the pink shirt.” Poppy tugs on her pale blue blouse for the tenth time.

“This is awkward,” I say, ignoring her comment because I’ve already assured my best friend that she looks great a hundred times to no avail. It's obviously not my validation she’s seeking. “We’re so early.” Poppy’s my number one reason for attending Brighton, a university acclaimed for its football and its law programs. It’s prestigious and expensive and thankfully has a strong marine biology program for me to earn my cetology degree.

“People hang out all the time.” Poppy looks around at the other students as though to prove her point. “Do you think any members of the rugby team will be in our classes?”

“The rugby team?”

Poppy grins, tucking her copper-red hair behind one ear. “I told you, if you want to get over Lincoln, the rugby team is going to be your ticket. One look at Blaine Campbell or Nick Carrol, and you're going to be like Lincoln who?”

I laugh. “You've already memorized their names?”

“Trust me, once you see these guys, you won’t even remember Lincoln.”

I stare at her for a moment, waiting for sense to catch up to my best friend.

“We now have the entire University at our fingertips.” She flexes her fingers, her hot pink polish shining in the bright morning sunlight. “This year is going to be epic.”

I don't voice my doubts. I don’t want to have them. I want to believe that my crush on Lincoln will soon be filed away as an embarrassing memory.

We pass a couple of guys who turn as we walk by. One whistles and makes a comment about about our backsides. The other asks for our phone numbers.

I scrunch my nose. This may be harder than I expected.

Poppy and I stop near the Pratt Building, where my first class is. “You remember where you’re going?” I ask her.

She nods. “I’ll text you when my class is over, and we can go to lunch.”

Before I can respond, someone slides their arm around my shoulders. “What's up, ladies?” Arlo says.

“Are all guys creeps?” I ask, ducking out from under the weight of his arm.

“Us? Creeps?” Arlo laughs. “Hold up, Pax and the Pres are behind me. They're just chasing a skirt. Fresh meat on campus.” He whoops.

My heart stutters—a standard reaction to hearing his name. I turn, trying to catch sight of them, working to remain calm. Then, I straighten my back, remembering my rules.

“Don’t make me kill you, Kostas.” Pax appears with Lincoln at