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

“I don’t know. Rae commented last year about how she thought I was more in love with the idea of being in love with him than I ever was with him, and I don’t know if she’s right or I just want her to be right.”

Maybe it’s my sour mood or the fact it’s busier today, but we barely talk. When it’s time for me to go, Paxton leaves his things and notifies Dominic that he’ll be back before he walks me out, carrying my bag like the good fake boyfriend that he is.

I’m regretting my sour mood before we even step outside. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“For what?” he asks, holding the door open for me.

“For being grumpy all afternoon.”

He shakes his head, the hint of a smile visible at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to be on with me. You needed some time to work through some thoughts. I get it. And if you want to discuss them, I'll be here for that, too.”

We don’t touch as we take the few steps to my car where I open the backseat and heft my bag inside.

“I hope your afternoon improves,” he tells me.

I think about telling him that it already has, but that sounds cheesy, so I swallow the words and nod. “Thanks again for lunch.”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me you’re tired of pizza.” He steps closer, so we’re toe to toe. He traces a wisp of hair with his finger that he smooths behind my ear.

“That’s blasphemy. Who gets tired of pizza?”

A crooked grin is my prize as he does that thing again, where his eyes slowly survey my features like he’s cataloging each of my thoughts and emotions and noting every detail. And I’m doing the same to him.

Thoughts of Sunday and Monday flutter into my brain, chased away by his game on Saturday and the bonfire afterward. We’re getting better at our roles, better at pretending. It’s the little details like sharing a smile and locking hands that made Rae say she was even fooled. The grandiose acts like making out and feeling each other up are still slow to the draw for both of us. Fifteen years of platonic memories and deeply-seated respect are likely both to blame.

His crooked grin becomes a smile. “Are you ready to kiss me yet?” It’s a reminder from Friday night.

My hands feel clammy, and my breathing goes uneven. Making the first move, taking that first step, is intimidating and awkward. I’ve wondered if I would hit his teeth or jaw or worse if I were to kiss him and try to make it seem natural and spontaneous. “Your staring is not helping.”

He tilts his head toward the sky, which is now the color of snow after it’s been on the ground for a solid month, and he laughs. It’s a great sound that makes me smile in return. “Another day,” he says.

Something twists in my chest that feels too similar to regret or disappointment as I wait for him to take a step back, assuming he’s calling off our good-bye kiss. I watch him through muted eyes, trying not to allow myself to feel these things, much less expose them as Pax does a final inventory, his weight on his heels. His smile fades, and time marches forward. I need to leave, and he needs to head to practice soon, but neither of us moves. It feels like we’re in a stalemate, which is ridiculous because there are loads of options, but neither of us seems willing or able to make one.

He’s the first to move, placing a hand on my hip. I mirror him, doing the same. He steps closer and moves his other hand to the back of my neck, and my breaths start coming too quickly as I place my other hand on the other side of his waist. Scents of the wet sidewalk and fresh pine and marina and Pax are tangling together into the sweetest fragrance that I wish my shallow breaths could pull in more of.

“Friday, we have another party,” he tells me, leaning even closer, so I feel his words against the sensitive skin of my lips. “It will be Brighton heavy, so there’s a chance both of our pasts will be there.”

“Fun,” I say dryly.

One corner of his lips pulls up. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

The way he’s dragging this out is killing me with anticipation and nerves. I’m pretty sure that’s his point. He’s waiting for me to close this gap and kiss him.

“Want me to do a countdown?” he asks, humor dancing in his eyes. “You look terrified.”

“If we gnash teeth or I bite you, it’s your fault,” I warn.

He presses his fingers against me like he does while we’re kissing, a silent approval as his blue eyes appear three shades darker, his gaze on my mouth.

“I’ll meet you halfway,” I say, then lean forward, my weight balanced on my toes. Pax grants me clemency, pressing his lips against mine and taking another step forward so my weight rests against him. His lips are soft and unhurried, like a slow dance. His hand at the back of my neck grows tighter, and he slants his mouth over mine, massaging my mouth with his. There’s no hurry, and there's also no pause as the kiss stretches out, making me wonder if this is another challenge, if he wants me to change the style of the kiss or if this is a style in and of itself? Do some couples kiss and just memorize each other’s mouths and breaths and warmth? Is that a thing? Because I desperately hope that it is.

When he finally steps back, he licks his lips like he’s savoring the taste of our kiss. “Just tell Maddie no.” He takes a step and opens my door. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

I slide into my seat,