Page 6 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Six

Damien

I ’m in the kitchen, sorting through the hardware we picked up for the upstairs windows, when Ronnie’s voice carries from the front porch.

“…yeah, she’s here every morning now. Looks like they’re finally making it official.”

I stop, a screw halfway to the counter.

He laughs, low and easy. “Nah, it’s not like that. Well, maybe it is. I mean, they’re definitely spending a lot of time together.”

My jaw tightens.

I grab the box of hinges, shove it into the cupboard harder than necessary, and head toward the door.

Ronnie’s leaning against the porch rail, phone to his ear, grinning like he’s in on the best joke in town. He glances over his shoulder at me, unbothered. “Oh—yeah, he just walked out here. You want to tell him yourself, or should I?”

I hold out my hand. “Give me the phone.”

He ends the call instead. “Relax, man. It was just Kyle from the hardware store. Word’s getting around, that’s all.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my jaw. Small towns never needed social media to spread a story, but give them a camera and a reason, and they’ll burn the place down in a day.

Ronnie squints at me. “You really didn’t think this would blow up, did you? You’re dating Lyla Hart. That’s—”

“I’m not dating her.”

“Right, you’re just letting the whole town think you are. Big difference.”

I step past him, leaning against the rail, staring out at the street. From here, I can see her house, the curtains in the front window swaying with the breeze.

It’s not just the attention I hate. It’s the way this’ll play with my family — especially Colton. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve been the black sheep for years. This? This’ll be proof I’m still the guy who makes the wrong call, the one who doesn’t care who he drags through the mud with him.

Except I do care.

Ronnie joins me at the railing. “You should get ahead of it before someone spins it worse than it already is.”

I glance at him. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

“Take her to lunch. Somewhere public. Make it look like you’re not hiding anything.”

“Not interested.”

He grins. “Then people will just fill in the blanks themselves. Probably with something way dirtier than the truth.”

I shake my head, but the thought gnaws at me. The gossip isn’t going to stop. And the longer I avoid her in public, the more it’ll look like I’m ashamed of her, or of what people think we are.

Which… isn’t exactly wrong.

By the time Lyla walks up to the porch, coffee in hand, I’ve already run through a dozen ways to keep her at arm’s length today. None of them survives past the second she steps inside, hair caught up in a messy bun, the drawstring on her hoodie hanging loose.

“Morning,” she says, offering me the extra coffee like it’s a peace treaty.

I take it, muttering, “Thanks,” before jerking my chin toward the kitchen. “We’ve got a problem.”

She freezes halfway through unzipping her hoodie. “What kind of problem?”

Ronnie, already leaning against the counter like he’s been waiting for this, answers for me. “Well, you’re officially the hottest topic in town. Kyle at the hardware store says it’s all anyone’s talking about — Lyla Hart and Damien Lawson, together at last.”

Her eyes flick to me. “You told people?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” I snap. “You told everyone when you opened your mouth at that charity event.”

She winces. “Right.” Then, after a beat, “So what’s the plan?”

Ronnie’s grin widens. “Public lunch. The diner. Let people see you. Get ahead of the story.”

“No,” I say automatically.

“Yes,” Ronnie counters, looking at Lyla. “It’s the perfect move. Sit by the window, share a plate of fries, make eyes at each other. Boom. The whole town buys it.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, clearly fighting a smile. “I mean… It’s not a terrible idea. If we want this to work, we have to sell it.”

I glare at both of them. “I agreed to the fake dating thing so you could land your deal, not so I could star in some small-town romcom.”

“You also agreed to make it believable,” she says, and her tone is sharper now, more deliberate. “This would make it believable.”

Ronnie shrugs. “Unless you do have something to hide.”

That lands like a gauntlet between us. Lyla holds my gaze, daring me to refuse.

And maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s the fact that backing down would make it look like I’m ashamed of her, but I hear myself say, “Fine. Lunch. But we’re in and out. No lingering.”

“Whatever you say,” she answers, her smile saying she’s already won.

The diner sits on the corner of Main and Harbor, its big front windows gleaming in the late morning sun. It’s been here longer than either of us, the kind of place where people pick a booth and keep it for twenty years.

The bell over the door jingles when we walk in, and I swear the sound makes every head turn. Conversations dip, the sizzle of the griddle in the back suddenly too loud.

Lyla’s hand brushes mine as we step inside, whether on purpose or just because the aisle’s narrow. I keep my expression neutral, but my pulse ticks up anyway.

“Morning, Damien. Lyla,” Nancy from behind the counter calls, her smile bright but just shy of nosy. “Just the two of you today?”

“Yes,” Lyla says before I can answer, her voice smooth.

Nancy gives a knowing nod and grabs two menus, leading us to a booth by the front window exactly where Ronnie said we should. From here, we’re visible to everyone inside and everyone walking past outside.

Perfect.

I slide into my side of the booth, stretching my legs out. Lyla sits opposite, setting her coffee down and tugging at her sleeve like she’s reminding herself not to fidget.

Across the diner, old Mr. Jensen squints over his paper at us. At the counter, two women in fleece vests are pretending not to watch, whispering behind their mugs.

Lyla leans in slightly. “You’d think they’ve never seen two people have lunch before.”

“They haven’t seen us have lunch before,” I mutter.

Her mouth curves, and there’s that glint in her eye, the one that tells me she’s enjoying this way more than she should.

When Nancy comes back for our order, Lyla doesn’t even look at me before saying, “We’ll split the burger basket.”

I arch a brow. “We will?”

She just gives me that same glint and hands her menu back to Nancy.

Nancy drops off our drinks, and the sound of ceramic mugs hitting the table makes a few heads swivel again.

Lyla wraps both hands around her mug, smiling just enough to make it look like I’ve said something worth smiling about. “So,” she says, her tone light for the crowd’s benefit, “how’s your morning been?”

I narrow my eyes at her across the rim of my coffee. “You’ve been here the whole time. You tell me.”

She shrugs, takes a slow sip, whispering, “I don’t know… maybe I’m trying to set the scene. You could play along, you know.”

I slide my hand over the table, brushing hers as I reach for the ketchup. “That better?”

Her eyes flick to our hands, the barest pause, before she pulls hers back to adjust her napkin. “Getting warmer.”

When the food comes, Nancy sets the plate between us, fries spilling over the edge. “You two enjoy now,” she says with a wink that makes me want to groan.

We split the burger, passing the plate back and forth like it’s second nature. Every time our fingers graze, Lyla’s gaze cuts up to mine, just quick enough to look accidental if anyone’s watching.

Under the table, her knee bumps mine once, then again, lighter this time. I leave mine there, solid against hers.

She tilts her head, smiling in that slow, deliberate way that’s all for show, except her eyes aren’t on the room anymore. They’re on me.

“See?” she says quietly, her voice meant only for me. “That wasn’t so hard.”

I take a fry, leaning back. “Not yet.”

The bell over the door jingles again, and a wave of chatter follows in.

I don’t notice who it is until Lyla’s gaze shifts past my shoulder, her smile tightening.

Morgan Price. Reporter. Professional gossip with a press badge. She’s already got her phone in hand as she makes a beeline for our table.

“Well, well,” she says brightly. “Look who’s making waves. Mind if I get a quick picture?”

“Yes,” I say at the same time Lyla says, “Of course.”

Morgan’s grin sharpens, sensing blood in the water. “You two look cozy. New thing? Or should we call it a reunion?”

Lyla leans back against the booth, her hand sliding deliberately across the table until it’s resting palm-up beside mine. “We’re very cozy,” she says sweetly, eyes flicking to me with a challenge in them.

She wants me to play along.

I slide my hand into hers, threading our fingers. “Cozy doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Morgan raises a brow, clearly waiting for more.

And then I realize what she’s really after… proof. Something no one can mistake for anything but what it looks like.

I reach across the table, cupping Lyla’s jaw in one hand. She’s warm under my palm, her eyes widening a fraction before I close the distance and kiss her.

It’s supposed to be for the cameras.

But the moment my mouth touches hers, the noise of the diner fades out. Her lips are soft, parting under mine with a sharp inhale that I feel more than hear. I angle closer, my thumb brushing her cheek, and she leans in like she’s been waiting years for this.

The flash from Morgan’s phone snaps me back. I pull away, slower than I should, our breaths mingling for one more beat before I let go.

“That ought to do it,” I say, my voice low enough for only Lyla to hear.

Morgan looks like she just won the lottery. She taps her screen and drifts away, no doubt already posting it everywhere.

Lyla sits back, touching her lips like she’s testing if they’re still there.

For a moment, neither of us says a word. And then Nancy’s voice cuts through from the counter: “Dessert?”

“Check,” I say, already knowing we need to get the hell out of here.

The cold hits the second we step outside, the kind that bites at your ears and makes the air taste sharp.

Lyla tugs her hoodie tighter, keeping her gaze fixed on the sidewalk. Across the street, Mrs. Carver is “watering” her plants again, which would be impressive if they weren’t fake plastic ferns. She’s not even pretending not to watch.

I shove my hands in my jacket pockets. “We got what we came for.”

“Sure,” she says, still not looking at me.

Her lips are a little flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from the wind or because I kissed her like I meant it.

We walk toward my truck, boots crunching over the grit on the pavement. I want to tell her it was just for show. That it didn’t mean anything, but the lie would sit wrong in my mouth.

Instead, I open the passenger door and wait for her to climb in.

“Thanks for lunch,” she says finally, the words clipped.

I nod, shut the door, and circle to the driver’s side. My hands tighten on the steering wheel before I even start the engine.

The whole way back to the house, we don’t say another word.

But my mind keeps going back to the way she leaned in without hesitation. The way she tasted like coffee and something warm I couldn’t place.

If this is what one day of our public act feels like, I’m not sure I want to think about it for the weeks to come.