Page 3 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Three

Lyla

T he next night, I’m walking into the community center. It smells like cinnamon cider and over-polished wood floors. The kind of smell that clings to your hair until morning. I force a smile as the volunteer at the door hands me a raffle ticket and a folded program.

“Glad you could make it, Lyla,” she says, all bright teeth and knit scarf. “We’ve got quite the crowd tonight. And your table’s just to the left of the stage.”

I thank her, even though she’s already looking past me at the next arrival. That’s how it is here—warm in the moment, gone in the next breath.

Inside, the place hums with overlapping conversations.

Strings of white lights loop from beam to beam, reflecting off the big windows that face the dark water.

Tables skirted in burgundy cloth line the walls, each stacked with silent auction items: baskets of maple syrup, knitted blankets, a framed aerial photo of the lighthouse in summer.

I spot my table right away. It has two folding chairs and a banner with my podcast’s name in bold letters: The Hart Line . I’d ordered it for a conference last spring, but it looks a little too big for the space, like it wandered into the wrong party.

I set down my tote bag and travel mug, pulling out the portable recorder.

The idea was to grab a few local soundbites between speeches and raffle calls.

Real voices for next week’s episode on “what community means after loss.” I’ve even written out some prompts on index cards in case my brain blanks.

It’s not that I don’t like these events. I do. Or at least I used to. But lately, every “how’s your mom doing?” lands heavier. Every “still living in the house?” feels like a reminder that I’m the one who had to stay after everything my family went through.

I make my first lap around the room with my professional smile in place, shaking hands, thanking people for listening, and handing out stickers with my podcast logo. The comments are polite but threaded with equal parts pity and curiosity.

“You’re doing such important work, dear,” says Mrs. Emerson, her hand warm over mine. “Sharing your story like that… It’s very brave.”

I thank her, even though “brave” feels like the wrong word for talking into a microphone from my bedroom closet while Mom sleeps down the hall.

The cider station is in the corner, manned by two high school volunteers in matching sweaters. I grab a cup, letting the steam warm my hands, and scan the room. I’m looking for potential sponsors, small business owners who might see the value in reaching my audience.

Instead, my eyes land on a pair of women by the cookie table. I know them both. One works at the pharmacy, the other at the post office. And they’re leaning in close, voices pitched just loud enough to carry over the instrumental music.

I don’t need to hear the words to know the subject. The way their eyes flick toward me and back again is enough.

I turn my back, sip my cider, and remind myself why I’m here: network, record, leave.

But there’s already a prickling at the base of my neck. Tonight feels like it’s going to test every ounce of my self-control.

I’m halfway to my table when the voices behind me sharpen into focus.

“…well, of course he’s doing well. Look at him now—NFL, gorgeous fiancée, charity galas. It’s a miracle he even comes back here at all.”

“Mm. And poor Lyla. Still… what’s the phrase? Keeping busy?”

The cider sours in my mouth. I stop in front of the silent auction table for the maple syrup basket, pretending to read the tag.

“She hasn’t dated anyone serious since him, has she?”

“I heard she’s been too busy with her podcast thing.”

There’s a pause, and then a laugh with an edge to it. “That’s just code for still hung up.”

The words slip under my skin, fast and hot. I tell myself I should turn, smile, and remind them I can hear every syllable. But I don’t. I stand there, staring at the bottle of amber syrup, letting their voices layer over each other.

Colton’s engagement has been splashed across every local news feed all week. I’d done my best to ignore it. I’ve muted profiles on social media, scrolled past the glossy pictures of him and her on some beach at sunset. It should be ancient history. We’ve been over for years.

But it’s hard to ignore when everyone else insists on remembering for you.

I slide the program into my tote and keep walking. My table is still empty, the banner too bright against the muted fall décor. I sit, place the recorder in the center like it’s a shield.

If I “keep busy”, talk to a few people, get my clips, thank the donors, I can be out of here before anything gets under my skin.

But that prickle at the base of my neck hasn’t gone away. And the room feels smaller than it did a few minutes ago.

The temperature in the room shifts before I even see him. A ripple of movement, heads turning, the volume of chatter spiking just enough to be noticeable.

Colton Lawson strolls in like he owns the place, a hand at the small of his fiancée’s back.

She’s tall, poised, in a cream sweater dress that looks like it was made for soft-focus magazine spreads.

Her golden hair catches the light as they pass under the strings of bulbs, and the smile she gives the room is practiced but warm.

People flock to them. It’s muscle memory in this town. Colton comes home, you shake his hand, tell him you’ve been watching his games, offer some small brag about knowing him “back when.”

I should look away. Focus on the raffle table. Adjust my banner. Anything.

Instead, I watch the way he leans down to murmur something to her, the exact same curve to his mouth he used to use on me when I was the one on his arm.

“Lyla Hart,” a voice says, sharp with recognition.

I turn to find Morgan Price—local blogger, freelance reporter, and general social media vulture—making her way toward me. Her phone is already in her hand, the camera app open like a weapon.

“Mind if I ask you a quick question for the site?” she says, already lifting the phone.

I keep my smile professional. “Depends on the question.”

Her gaze flicks toward Colton across the room, then back to me. “Big night for Colton Lawson, huh? What do you think of the engagement?”

My grip on the edge of the table tightens. “I think I wish them well.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not satisfied. “And what about you? Have you found someone special?”

The question lands harder than it should, fueled by the syrup-table gossip still running in the back of my mind. My chest feels tight, my tongue heavy. I know I should just laugh it off, give her a neutral response, and move on.

But her phone is recording, Colton is right there flaunting his perfect new life, and something in me refuses to play the part they’ve all written for me.

I take a slow sip of cider, buying myself a second to come up with something, anything that doesn’t make me sound pathetic or defensive.

Morgan tilts her head, that faux-sympathetic smile stretching wider. “Oh, come on, Lyla, give us something. I’m sure your listeners would love a little insight into—”

“I’m seeing someone,” I say, before I can stop myself.

The words land between us like a dropped glass; too loud, too sharp.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? Well, then. Look at that! So who’s the lucky guy?”

I should say no one they know. I should pick a fake name, some vague description of a man from “out of town.”

But my gaze snags across the room, past Colton and his glittering fiancée, to the thought of a man who’s been under my skin since I was a teenager. Broad shoulders, always bent over a toolbox. Storm-gray eyes that could pin you to the spot.

“Damien Lawson,” I hear myself say.

Morgan’s phone jerks slightly, like my words just threw her off balance. “Wait—Colton’s brother?”

“Yes,” I say, steadying my tone. “We’ve been… seeing each other.”

She recovers fast, a spark lighting behind her eyes. “That’s—wow. Quite a story. Do you think the two of you might be willing to do an interview as a couple?”

I laugh lightly, trying to make it sound casual. “We’ll see. He’s not exactly the media type.”

Morgan is grinning now, already backing up to get a wider shot of me. “Oh, this is juicy! Makes sense that he’s back after all this time. I’m sure everyone is looking forward to seeing the two of you. Thank you, Lyla.”

As she moves away, I feel the first real drop in my stomach.

Across the room, Colton is looking straight at me. His expression is warm. And it’s probably because he hasn’t yet heard the fake bomb I just dropped.

I turn back to my table, my pulse loud in my ears. Maybe I can still spin this. Maybe it won’t spread.

Oh, who am I kidding? This is Mariner’s Bluff. Where the only thing better than the fishing is the town gossip. And Morgan Price lives for moments like this.

By the time I’m out the door, the adrenaline is fading, replaced by the sick certainty that Damien is going to hear about it probably before I even make it home.

I make it three steps toward the door before I hear it… my name, carried on a tide of whispers.

“…did she say Damien Lawson?”

“Colton’s brother—”

“After everything?”

I feel bile rising into my throat, but I keep moving, smile fixed just enough to get me past the volunteer at the entrance, who chirps, “Have a great night, Ms. Hart!”

The blast of cold air outside is a slap.

It’s only fall, but the cold is descending quickly.

My fingers start to freeze as I dig for my keys, fumbling them twice before I can get the car door open.

I glance back through the window of the community center and catch Colton still watching me, his arm looped around his fiancée’s waist like a claim.

It’s not just that I said it. It’s that Morgan Price was recording. By now, she’s probably uploaded it to her socials with some headline like Lyla Hart Moves On… With Colton’s Brother . The town will eat it alive. And I want nothing more than to just rewind the last fifteen minutes of my existence.

And Damien? Good lord, what was I thinking?

He was never the kind of guy who liked being the center of attention, and I just painted a bull’s-eye right on his back.

My mind races through the possible ways this could go: he laughs it off, calls me crazy, tells the whole town it’s a lie. Or worse, he says nothing and lets me live in the agony of facing them myself and fessing up.

But whatever happens, I just can’t let him hear it from someone else. I need to get ahead of it… and fast.

The engine on my old car coughs to life, headlights sweeping over the street as I pull out. My hands are tight on the wheel, pulse loud in my ears, as I aim the car across town.

By the time I hit our street, I’m rehearsing my explanation just long enough to realize there’s no version that makes me look sane.

But it’s too late now.

The glow of the Lawson’s porch light comes into view, and I pull in fast, gravel spitting under the tires. I kill the engine, step out into the cold, and face the house where Damien is almost certainly inside, completely unaware of the hurricane I just spun his name into.

But not for long.