Page 5 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Five

Lyla

I spend the morning trying to find things to do, but the minutes crawl. Every time I glance at the clock, it’s still nowhere near the hour Damien told me to come over.

It’s not like I’m nervous. I’ve just never done manual labor under the watchful eye of a man who already thinks I’m a pain in the ass.

And maybe I’m taking longer than necessary to find “clothes I can ruin” because half my wardrobe is oversized sweaters and leggings that cost more than I care to admit. Eventually I settle on an old pair of black joggers, a faded band tee, and a hoodie with a bleach stain on the cuff.

Before I leave, I check on Mom. She’s in her recliner, blanket pulled up to her chin, the muted TV playing one of those daytime talk shows she can’t quite follow anymore.

“I’m going across the street,” I tell her, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

She blinks up at me, then smiles faintly. “You’ll be late for school.”

My throat tightens. Just by her saying those words, I know what kind of day it’ll be.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” I assure her.

Outside, the air has that sharp edge of late winter. The sky is pale, the kind that makes the ocean look like steel if we were close enough to see it.

Halfway down my front steps, I notice Mrs. Carver from next door fussing with her planters. She’s in a heavy coat, hands buried in the soil like she’s digging for buried treasure. She glances up just long enough to say, “Morning, Lyla.”

“Morning,” I answer, pretending I don’t know she’s clocking every step I take toward the Lawson house.

The porch light over there is on since it’s still dark at this hour. Damien’s standing in the open doorway, coffee in one hand, the other braced on the frame. He’s wearing a dark thermal shirt and jeans, both dusted with sawdust, like he’s already put in a full day before I even crossed the street.

“You ready to work?” he asks, no smile, just that low voice that somehow carries.

I lift my chin. “Born ready.”

His gaze flicks over me once, slow enough to make my skin warm under the hoodie. He steps back, letting me pass inside, and I can’t shake the feeling that every neighbor on this block just saw me walk into the Lawson house.

Which, I guess, is exactly the point.

Ronnie’s voice carries before I even see him. “Well, look who showed up for orientation.”

He’s in the front room, crouched over an open toolbox, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment since last night.

I arch a brow. “Is there a hazing process, or do I just get thrown to the wolves?”

He stands, dusting his hands on his jeans. “Depends on how you handle a sanding block.”

“I can handle anything,” I say, sliding my hoodie zipper down an inch. The thermal shirt underneath clings a little too well, and I’m suddenly aware of Damien standing in the doorway behind me.

His eyes drop for a fraction of a second before he moves past me to the workbench. “Don’t start with anything big,” he says, pulling out a block and a sheet of sandpaper. “You’ll do the upstairs bedroom trim first. It’s simple, but it needs to be done right.”

He hands me the block. Our fingers brush. It’s just a quick contact, but his skin is warm and rough.

“Wrap it tight,” he says, holding up the paper.

I start to fold it over the block, but he’s frowning already. “Like this.”

He steps in close, his chest almost brushing my shoulder, one hand curling over mine to guide the fold. His other hand smooths the paper along the edge, his thumb grazing my knuckle in the process.

It’s not deliberate. Or maybe it is. I can’t tell.

When he looks down at me, his eyes are darker than they were a moment ago.

“Now you try,” he says, his voice lower.

For one dizzy second, I’m not thinking about the trim upstairs. I’m thinking about the way his hand covered mine, firm and sure, and the sudden, ridiculous thought of what else those hands could ruin if he wanted to.

I force a smile. “Got it.”

Ronnie claps once, breaking whatever was humming in the air. “Look at you two, already working in sync. This is gonna be great.”

Damien steps back, his expression shuttered again. “We’ll see.”

The upstairs bedroom smells like sawdust and old paint. Sunlight cuts in through the single window, dust motes swirling in the beams like they’ve been waiting years to move again.

Damien drops a drop cloth over the hardwood, the motion efficient and precise, like he’s done this a thousand times. Which, I guess, he has.

“Start with this side,” he says, nodding toward the trim by the closet. “Long, steady strokes. Don’t rush it.”

“Am I trying to sand it or turn it on?” I joke.

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t dignify it with a response. If I had been my brother and this were ten years ago, he would’ve been laughing at that. I try to ignore the awkward silence and just get to work.

Ronnie’s downstairs, some classic rock playing low from his phone. The bass hums faintly through the floorboards, blending with the rasp of the sandpaper as I start working. The repetitive motion is oddly satisfying until I realize Damien’s closer than he needs to be, working on the opposite wall.

Every time I glance up, I catch the cut of his shoulders moving under his shirt, the way his forearms flex when he presses the sandpaper into the wood. Sawdust clings to his dark hair, making it look light.

At one point, I bend to reach the bottom edge of the trim and drop the block. It skitters toward him, bumping his boot. He crouches to pick it up, and for a moment we’re face to face in the quiet, only the music and our breathing filling the space.

He hands it back, fingers brushing mine again, too slow to be an accident this time.

“Careful,” he says, his voice low. “You’ll scrape your knuckles if you hold it wrong.”

“I’ll survive,” I murmur.

His gaze dips to my mouth before he stands, turning back to his work like nothing happened.

I focus on the trim, but my pulse is louder than the sandpaper now. Every accidental pass of his arm behind me, every shift of his shadow in my peripheral vision, keeps my skin buzzing.

It’s just sanding. Just work.

Except it’s not, and we both know it.

Ronnie’s voice carries up the stairs. “I’m running to the hardware store. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“Get more painter’s tape,” Damien calls back.

“Got it. And I may or may not stop for donuts,” Ronnie adds, his boots thudding across the downstairs floor before the front door shuts.

The house falls quiet, leaving me remotely aware that this is the first time we’ve been alone.

I set the sanding block on the windowsill and flex my fingers. “So… about this fake relationship of ours.”

Damien glances over from where he’s taping off the already sanded baseboards. “What about it?”

“Well,” I say, leaning my hip against the wall, “if we’re going to convince people, we should probably work on our chemistry. You know, in public.”

His brow lifts. “I’m sure just seeing us together is enough to make it convincing.”

I tilt my head. “Maybe. But wouldn’t it be a shame if someone looked at us and thought, Eh, they don’t seem that into each other ?”

He peels off another strip of tape, keeping his eyes on the wall. “You planning on holding my hand, little Hart?”

There’s an air of amusement when he says it. And it makes what I’m suggesting just sound silly.

“I just think we should have a plan. Handholding. Public dates,” I pause just long enough for the next part to hit. “Kissing, when people are watching.”

That makes him look at me. Slow. Measured. Like he’s deciding whether I’m worth answering.

“You think we need to work on our chemistry by what… practicing kissing?” he asks.

I shrug, playing it light. “Just saying. We wouldn’t want it to look fake.”

He stands, crossing the room until he’s close enough that I have to tip my head back slightly. “I think,” he says quietly, “you’d have a hard time pretending, little Hart.”

The words hang there between us, heavy and hot.

Before I can answer, the sound of a car door slamming outside jolts the moment apart. Damien steps back, turning toward the trim like nothing happened.

“Back to work,” he says.

But I can still feel the heat of him, lingering.

A moment later, I’m perched on the edge of the drop cloth, one foot braced on the floor, the other on the windowsill as I reach up to sand the top strip of trim. The angle’s awkward, my arm already sore, but I’m determined not to ask for help.

“Careful,” Damien says from across the room. I feel the heat of his eyes watching me.

“I’ve got it,” I shoot back, stretching just a little farther. And then my boot slips.

I let out a startled gasp, the block clattering to the floor. Before I can fall, Damien’s there, one arm banded around my waist, the other gripping my forearm tight enough to keep me upright.

The world narrows to the solid heat of his body against mine, his breath brushing my temple.

“You were saying?” His voice is low.

I should step back. Thank him. Anything. But for a second, neither of us moves. His hand stays on my waist, thumb resting just inside the seam of my hoodie, the pressure warm and steady.

The front door creaks open downstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots on stairs.

Ronnie appears in the doorway with a bag in one hand and a box of donuts in the other. He stops dead, taking in the scene.

“Well,” he says, grinning slowly. “Okay, I see now what happens when I’m not around. You sure you two are gonna get anything done when I leave?”

Damien drops his hands and steps back like I’m suddenly made of fire. “We were just working,” he mutters.

Ronnie just shakes his head, that grin not fading as he disappears into the hall.

I bend to pick up the sanding block, but my fingers are trembling, and it has nothing to do with almost falling.

Ronnie’s whistling fades down the hall, his footsteps echoing until the front door shuts again. The house settles back into that quiet hum, but it feels different now. Charged.

I keep my focus on the trim, but my pulse is still running high. Damien works on the opposite side of the room, jaw tight, movements sharper than before.

“Thanks,” I say finally, my voice softer than I mean it to be.

He doesn’t look up. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

I smirk, though he can’t see it. “Saving me or touching me?”

His sanding slows for half a second before he says, “Both.”

We work in silence after that. The only sounds are the scrape of sandpaper and the faint thump of Ronnie moving around downstairs.

When I leave later, Ronnie’s leaning against his truck, sipping coffee like he’s been waiting for me. “Day one and you’re already getting handsy,” he says, smirking. “Oh, what fun.”

I roll my eyes, heading for my porch. “We got work done.”

“Sure,” he says. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

Inside, I hang my coat and try to shake off the weight in my chest. But I can still feel Damien’s hand at my waist, the steadiness of it, and the way my body reacted like it had been waiting for that touch.

It’s only day one.

And I’m already breaking our own rules.