Page 21 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Twenty-One

Lyla

T he first thing I do after coffee is check my phone.

It’s a bad habit — the kind that usually ends with me doom scrolling through headlines or avoiding comments altogether — but today I can’t help it.

The photo of Damien and me is everywhere. Well… everywhere in my little corner of the internet. Hundreds of likes, dozens of comments.

You two are adorable!

That smile! Who is he?

You should totally have him on the podcast.

Small-town hottie alert.

I bite my lip, scrolling. There’s nothing nasty, nothing cruel — just curiosity and a whole lot of people rooting for something they think is real.

And the weird thing is, I don’t hate it.

The idea of him on my podcast makes me smile, even though it’s ridiculous. He’d probably sit there in stony silence, arms crossed, until I bribed him with coffee or threatened to edit him into something embarrassing.

Still, the thought lingers as I carry my mug into the closet-turned-recording-booth.

The closet smells faintly of laundry detergent and cedar from the little sachet I keep in the corner. I settle onto the stool, pull the mic toward me, and put on my headphones.

Usually, this is the part where I stare at the wall for ten minutes, trying to force something worth saying. Lately, everything has felt like a rerun — me trying to wring meaning from the same thoughts until they’re thin and brittle.

But today… I just start talking.

I talk about how grief isn’t a straight line — how some days you feel like you’re making progress, and others, you’re right back in the worst part of it. I talk about the people who surprise you, who step back into your life when you least expect it and somehow make the air feel easier to breathe.

I don’t say his name. I don’t have to.

The words just come, unspooling in a way they haven’t in weeks. I’m not even glancing at my notes — I’m just… here. Present. Speaking from somewhere that feels softer, warmer, less weighed down.

When I finally stop, I realize my cheeks ache from smiling.

I hit save, then lean back, the quiet of the room settling around me.

The only thing that’s changed between yesterday’s block and today’s flow is Damien.

I’m just wrapping my mic cord when my phone buzzes on the stool beside me.

Damien: Come over when you’re done.

No punctuation, no explanation. Just like him — short, to the point, and somehow still managing to make my pulse pick up.

I step out of the booth and glance toward the kitchen window, already wondering what excuse I can give my mom for darting across the street.

That’s when I see her. She’s standing at the living room window, her hands resting on the sill, eyes fixed across the street.

Curious, I move in beside her.

And there he is.

Damien Lawson, pushing a mower across the front lawn of his parents’ old house, bare skin gleaming in the pale winter sun. Sweat darkens his hair, muscles shifting under his skin with every step.

He’s all broad shoulders, tight abs, and forearms that flex in a way that makes my stomach flutter.

My mom leans closer to the glass like she’s trying to see better. “Well,” she says under her breath, almost to herself, “that’s a sight.”

I bite back a laugh — and a groan. Because she’s not wrong.

The problem is, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to look him in the eye when I walk over there without picturing exactly what he looks like right now.

The mower sputters to a stop as I step onto the edge of his driveway. He straightens, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead, leaving a streak of grass and sweat.

For half a second, I think he’s going to smirk, say something about me staring. That’s what I’m ready for — something light, playful.

But then his eyes lock on mine, steady and unreadable, and his voice is nothing but serious when he says, “There’s something I need you to know.”

The heat in my chest chills instantly, replaced by the kind of prickling dread that makes it hard to swallow.

I force myself to nod, even though every instinct tells me to turn around and pretend I didn’t hear him.

Because I know — whatever he’s about to say, it’s not small.