Page 2 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Two

Damien

T he door sticks like it’s trying to keep me out. Figures.

I shove harder, wood scraping wood, until the hinges groan and the stale air hits me. It smells like dust, old salt, and the faint bite of mildew from the upstairs bathroom I haven’t opened yet. It’s the same smell it had the day my parents left, only sharper from years of being shut tight.

“You weren’t kidding,” Ronnie says behind me. “This place isn’t just a renovation project… it’s a total gut job.”

“Understatement,” I grunt, stepping over the threshold. The foyer creaks under my boots.

Ronnie’s already got his tool bag slung over one shoulder and a grin like he’s thrilled to get his hands on this disaster.

He’s built lean, wiry, with a buzz cut that makes him look younger than he is.

We’ve worked enough jobs together that I know his rhythm—he talks too much, works fast, and can disappear without warning when his phone rings.

“I’ve only got you for three days,” I remind him, heading toward the front room. “So don’t start telling me about all the ways you’d ‘open up the space.’ We’re not doing that.”

He laughs. “You’re no fun. Thought this was gonna be one of those full HGTV, knock-out-walls-and-install-skylights deals.”

“Yeah, well, you thought wrong. We’re just getting it sale-ready. Though… yeah, it’s gonna need quite a bit to even get it up to today’s standards. Damn.”

He sets his bag down with a thump. “Man, you could’ve stayed in the city and picked up a loft renovation that pays triple.”

“Could’ve,” I say, running my hand over the cracked molding, “but my parents want this place off their hands before spring. And we’re splitting the proceeds. So the less people I have to pay, the more I get to keep.”

The words, and I want out of this town before I choke on it, hang silent in my head.

Ronnie whistles low, scanning the peeling wallpaper, the sagging doorframes. “You really grew up here?”

“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate. The less we dig into the history here, the better.

He quickly moves outside and reaches the truck, grunting as he takes down the tools we need.

The view from my parents’ front porch takes me back to another time.

Back then, Aaron Hart would’ve been here too, giving me crap for the way I cut boards for the tree house we built one summer, tossing a hammer like it was a baseball.

I force the memory out before it takes root.

“Where do you want me, boss man?” Ronnie asks, snapping open his measuring tape.

“Start with the foyer trim. I’ll keep ripping out the rotting boards on the porch.”

He nods, still glancing around like he’s trying to picture what this place looked like when people actually lived here.

I know exactly what it looked like. The image is burned in my head of my mom’s potted ferns by the window, my dad’s boots by the door, Colton’s football gear dumped in the corner.

It’s easier to think about the work than the past.

I kneel by the entryway, pry bar in hand, and the next board comes up with a scream of nails. Years of dust and dirt come up, too.

Ronnie’s humming something under his breath, already pulling nails like we’re on a timer. “Three days, man. You’d better have a beer fridge in here or I’m charging you overtime.”

“Fridge is unplugged for now. But you’ll survive.”

He groans like I just told him we’re working for free, and I let the corner of my mouth twitch. This is why I asked him to come for the first stretch, his noise fills the space, so I don’t have to think too hard about what’s just across the street.

I tell myself I’m here for the job. Get in, get the work done, get out. The rest, the memories, the people across the street, they’re not my problem.

Not anymore.

Ronnie’s always had two settings; working and talking. Today, he’s doing both at full blast.

The hammering echoes off bare walls, the sound sharp in the empty space. He’s talking about some job in Portland, a woman who made him repaint her kitchen three times because she couldn’t decide between “cream” and “eggshell.”

“It’s the same damn color,” he says, prying at a stubborn nail. “Whole time I’m thinking, lady, just pick one before I lose the will to live. ”

I grunt, not looking up from the board I’m cutting. “You ever consider that maybe your bedside manner sucks?”

He smirks. “My bedside manner’s great. That’s why I keep getting referrals.”

I shake my head, line up the saw, and the blade bites through wood.

The Old Lawson house is built solid, better than most in this town, but a decade without upkeep have made it soft in the wrong places.

Every creak under my boots is a reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve been in here, really in here.

Ronnie moves to the front windows, measuring the room. “So, you gonna tell me why you didn’t just hire local guys to help? This isn’t exactly a one-man gig.”

“I told you, more money I get to keep. I need capital to keep this business going,” I say.

He raises a brow but doesn’t push. “Fine. Your time, your dime.”

It’s not just about the work. Hiring local means talking, and talking means gossip, and gossip spreads fast in this town. I’ve done my time as the subject of everybody’s favorite story. I’m not interested in a rerun.

Ronnie keeps going on about a new taco place he heard about near the harbor, about a boat he’s thinking of buying. His voice is a steady background noise, like a radio on low. I’m half listening, half counting down the minutes until he has to head back to the city.

Every so often a breeze cuts through the open window, carrying something sharper than just the smell of ocean water a few miles away—laundry soap, the faint floral scent of detergent I know without knowing why.

Ronnie’s halfway up the ladder, muttering about the warped wood, when the slam of a car door snaps my attention toward the street.

Not that I’m looking for her.

But there she is, Lyla Hart, coming down her front steps with a tote bag over her shoulder and a travel mug in her hand.

Her hair’s loose this time, wind tossing it around her face as she fumbles for her keys.

She’s wearing jeans and a fitted jacket that shouldn’t be doing anything for me, but it is.

Ronnie whistles low. “Well, hello again, neighbor.”

I don’t bother looking at him. “Leave it alone.”

“What? I’m just saying. You didn’t tell me you had scenery like that across the street.”

“She’s not scenery.” The words come out too sharp, and his head swivels toward me like he’s just found something worth poking at.

Lyla catches sight of us and hesitates halfway to her house. Her gaze lands on Ronnie first, curious, then shifts to me. I hold it, because I’ve never been the one to look away first.

She starts toward the edge of her yard, voice carrying just enough to reach us. “Looks like you found someone willing to work with you.”

Ronnie grins down from the ladder. “He’s not so bad once you get past the scowl.”

Her mouth curves, but it’s aimed at me. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I adjust the level in my hand, checking the bubble like I’m too busy to be part of this conversation. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

She tips her head, mock-thoughtful. “Yeah, actually. I’m recording in about an hour. But I wanted to make sure you weren’t planning to make too much noise. Microphones pick up everything.”

I let my gaze drag deliberately from her head to her boots. “Guess you’ll just have to work around it.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, and Ronnie jumps in before I can answer. “I’ll make sure he behaves, sweetheart.”

Lyla smiles at him, and I instantly feel a rise in my chest.

“Thank you, Mr?”

“Oh, you can just call me by my given name… Ronaldo Guissepe Moretti.”

Lyla cocks her head to the side.

“Ronnie,” I say. “His name’s just Ronnie.”

“Or that,” Ronnie offers tossing a hand in my direction.

“Well, Ronnie. If you can guarantee some quiet, I’ll bring something nice later.”

Ronnie grins extra wide, and I would really like to slap it right off his face.

“Deal,” he says with a thumbs up.

She glances my way one more time, then turns, walking back to her house, and the sway of her hips is going to haunt me all afternoon. “Maybe I’ll bring some coffee that’s strong enough to wipe the scowl off Damien’s face.”

Ronnie laughs at that, just as she disappears inside. “Yeah, you’re in trouble, man.”

I go turn back to my porch. “Shut up and hand me the drill.”

Ronnie doesn’t hand me the drill right away. He’s still grinning like he just watched me step on a rake.

“You didn’t tell me your neighbor looked like that ” he says, finally passing the tool over.

I take it without looking at him. “Didn’t think it was relevant information.”

“Oh, it’s relevant. She’s got that… I don’t know, energy . Like she’s already planning your funeral, but you’d still thank her for the smile.”

I level the bit into the wood, not rising to the bait. “You’re talking too much again.”

He chuckles. “Come on, man. You can’t tell me you don’t see it. The way she was looking at you—”

“She was looking at you,” I cut in.

“That’s because I was friendly.”

“No. You were nosy.”

“Same thing,” he says easily. “Anyway, if I lived across the street from her, I’d be looking for excuses to borrow sugar. Or coffee. Or whatever else she’s willing to pour.”

The drill bites into the board, the whine loud enough to shut him up for a few seconds.

I keep my eyes on my work, watching the screws sink flush into the wood, pretending I’m not picturing Lyla walking back into her house, dark hair catching on her jacket zipper, mouth tilted in that almost-smile she used to throw at me when she was trying to win an argument.

It’s been years since I’ve been this close to her. Years since I’ve heard her voice in person, instead of late-night playing on the speaker of my laptop as she says the words,

“Thanks for joining us. I’m Lyla Hart, and you’re listening to The Hart-line Podcast.”

So yeah, I’ve listened. Once or twice. Maybe more. Enough to know she’s good at what she does, and that every word is sharpened by the way she feels things down to the bone.

It’s the same way she fights. And the same way she used to look at me before the night everything changed.

Ronnie breaks the silence again. “Is she single?”

I put the drill down, meet his eyes flat. “Don’t.”

His grin fades just enough for him to nod, hands up in mock surrender. “Alright. Message received. Don’t hit on the hot neighbor. Got it.”

We go back to work. The rhythm of it fills the space between us. Nails, hammer, the low hum of the compressor outside. But every so often, I catch myself glancing at the street. Not because I expect to see her.

Because I want to.

By mid-afternoon, the light starts shifting, the kind that says the weather could turn on you in half an hour. Ronnie’s phone buzzes, and he groans loud enough for it to echo.

“Gotta run,” he says, already climbing down from the ladder. “Meeting a guy about a boat. If I don’t go now, he’ll sell it to someone else.”

I check the half-finished trim and the pile of boards stacked against the wall. “Thought you said you were here to work.”

“I did… and now I gotta bounce.” He grabs his jacket, stuffing a tape measure into the pocket. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Try not to brood yourself into a hole while I’m gone.”

I just grunt, and he laughs his way out the door. He thinks he’s so amusing.

When the sound of his truck fades, the house exhales into stillness. No humming, no nail gun, no off-key singing from the ladder. Just the creak of the old bones settling and the faint shush of the ocean and its waves crashing against the rock just a few streets over.

I clear tools, set things where I’ll find them in the morning. My boots leave sawdust tracks across the foyer, but I don’t bother sweeping.

On my way to the kitchen, I pass the front window. The glass is still streaked from the last storm, but it’s enough to see the glow from across the street. Lyla’s front room lit up, warm against the gray sky.

She’s moving around inside. I can’t hear her, but I imagine the sound anyway, her voice on the phone, maybe, or talking to her mom.

My hand rests against the cold window frame longer than it should. I tell myself I’m just checking the weather. Making sure the wind isn’t picking up.

She disappears deeper into the house. The light in that room stays on, spilling onto the street, a quiet beacon I shouldn’t be looking at.

I turn away, head for the back door, and tell myself I’ve got work to do tomorrow. That’s all I’m here for.

But even when I’m locking up, I know it’s a lie.