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

late at night or between classes in an attempt to hook up—cue Chase. Hence my lack of dating around, and hence why being here without Rae or anyone else I know to comfortably lead me away from jerks like this guy, has me ready to leave.

An arm brushes against my shoulder, and Paxton appears at my side. His gaze is on my self-elected judge. Paxton wears his confidence like a second skin. It’s in the way his shoulders are always pulled back, in the easy way he smiles, in the way he’ll strike up a conversation with anyone. Currently, it’s translated in the way he stares this asshole down with a silent threat that the guy seems to hear because he shrinks back like a snail, hiding in his shell.

“What she likes or doesn’t like to drink is none of your goddamn business,” Pax says. “It’s my business.”

The guy clenches his teeth like he wants to say something cunning or sarcastic but also knows better.

“And if you be a dick to her or anyone else again, I’ll make sure you’re my business.”

The stranger takes a drink and then turns and heads toward the living room.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I tell him.

“What?”

“Threatened him. That’s the last thing you need on your rap sheet.”

Pax gifts me with a broad smile. “I have a rap sheet, now?”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“Touchdown for Poppy Anderson,” he says, chuckling as he turns and rakes his gaze over the party.

“Not to sound like your babysitter, but is there a reason we’re here?”

“It’s a party.”

“I see that.”

His eyes flash to mine. “Then what are you missing?”

“You said you wanted to do this to improve your reputation. Step one involves not going out to any parties.”

“No one from Brighton is going to be here.”

“Pretty sure others besides students at Brighton will recognize you.”

A dismissive shrug tugs at his shoulders. “Tonight, I needed a little revenge.”

“Revenge?” I repeat the word like it’s foreign and unknown.

He nods once, his attention over my shoulder where he’s tracking something or likely someone. “God, I need a drink for this,” he says.

“For what?” I ask. I start to turn to see what’s holding his attention and realize it’s a who—more accurately, Candace.

“We should definitely g—.” My words are cut off as Paxton grips my shoulders and tugs me in one harsh and fast move that has me falling against his chest. I think I gasp or maybe yelp. Either way, it’s not heard because Paxton Lawson, my best friend’s older brother, is kissing me, silencing my surprise as he threads his fingers into my hair and holds me too close.

A contradicting set of thoughts blare like a horn as his lips move over mine with enough aggression and purpose to bruise my mouth. The heat of his touch soaks into me, and the woodsy scent of pine and cedar with undertones that are equal parts sweet and spicy tickles my nose and memories.

I shove against his chest at the same time I take a step back, my eyes wide and my temper high. I don’t even know how to process what I’m feeling, and I’m the poster child for feelings. My mom taught me how to label and express my emotions before I knew how to ride a bike. I wasn’t allowed to use generic terms like angry because it was too overarching. I had to be specific because my mom believes that anger is the cause of other raw feelings that are harder and scarier to face. But right now, I’m clinging to anger like it’s a lifeboat because it’s safer and because I knew coming here was a bad idea, and still, I came.

“Sorry,” Pax says, but his apology lacks sincerity as he looks across the partygoers again, no doubt looking for Candace.

“Does it really matter what she thinks?” I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand in one pull. It’s not a conscious decision, but a reaction as insecurities and deception climb their way to the front of my thoughts. They would. Self-deprecating thoughts are always the winners in emotional sprints.

He shrugs one shoulder, still eyeing the crowds. “She wants to play jealous games. I’ll play.”

“Jealousy means you care. You either care, or you don’t. You’re either jealous, or you’re not.”

His blue eyes meet mine. “This was to show her I’m not jealous,” he says. “She tagged me in a photo of her kissing Derek fucking Paulson, thinking I’d give a shit, and now I just kissed you to show her I don’t care.”

“You realize that what you just explained is the very definition of jealousy, right?”

“Call it whatever you want. I needed to prove a point, and I did.”

“So this is what you had in mind? I come out to a party in the middle of nowhere and spend my Friday night trying to make Candace jealous and share a really awkward and bad kiss with my best friend’s brother?”

He frowns. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you trip.”

“Oh, that’s okay, your teeth caught me.”

He laughs, but his gaze falls, his cheeks a light pink that reveals his embarrassment before his eyes do. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to act like a caveman.”

“I hope not because even girls like Candace don’t find that attractive.”

His grin stretches, and his gaze wanders, but this time, he doesn’t seem to focus on anything or anyone, more like he can’t manage to look at me because mortification has just been sewn into the tapestry of our friendship. “Who was that asshat that was talking to you?” he asks before I can think of something to say to overcome the awkwardness and cover it so we can both move on and forward because feeling embarrassed around Paxton will guarantee to lead to nothing but additional anxiety and regret.

“I have no idea,” I tell him. “I don’t know anyone here but you and…” I don’t say her name. It’s not necessary.

Paxton nods. “Yeah, me either.” He