Page 8 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Eight

Lyla

T he closet is warm in that stuffy, swallowed-up way that makes sound cozy on a recording. My “studio” isn’t glamorous — an old laptop balanced on a TV tray, mic propped up between stacked paperbacks, two thick blankets pinned to the walls to keep the sound from bouncing.

Usually, once I close the door, the rest of the world blurs.

Not today.

I click record. “Welcome back to The Hart line . Today we’re talking about change — the kind you don’t see coming, the kind that—”

Damien’s mouth flashes in my mind, the heat of his hand against my cheek at the diner.

I stop the recording. Restart. “Today’s episode is about unexpected change. Sometimes life shifts under your feet and—”

Colton. Ronnie’s casual I ran into your brother .

Stop. Restart. “When life changes suddenly, we—”

Damien again, leaning over the saw yesterday, his shoulder brushing mine, his voice rough in my ear.

I smack the space bar and drop my head back against the wall with a groan. I’ve done three takes, and none of them sound like someone who’s calm and in control.

The trouble is, I am living today’s episode topic. The ground feels thin, like one wrong step will send me plunging through. Between Damien’s kiss, the way he shut down when I asked about Aaron, and now the fact that Colton’s in town… it’s too much to pretend it’s all business as usual.

I try again, pushing the words out like I’m steady. “Sometimes life changes without warning, and you have to decide whether to fight it, or let it carry you somewhere new.”

My voice sounds fine. Normal. But my heart is a hammer against my ribs.

I wrap up the episode with my usual sign-off, hit save, and peel off the blankets enough to slip out of the closet.

The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge, until I hear the shuffle of slippers across the hardwood.

“Mom?”

She’s by the front door, coat half-zipped, purse hanging crooked from her shoulder. Her hair is pulled back, but strands have escaped, floating around her face like they’ve forgotten where they belong.

“I can’t find my keys,” she says, glancing around the entryway table. “If I don’t leave soon, Aaron will be waiting out front. You know how he hates that.”

The words hit like a fist.

Aaron hasn’t waited outside a school in ten years.

I force my voice light. “Hey, Mom. It’s okay, I’ve got it covered. Why don’t we sit down for a minute?”

Her brow furrows. “But he’ll be late—”

“I already picked him up,” I lie gently, guiding her away from the door. “He’s… busy with something.”

She relaxes a little at that, letting me steer her into the kitchen. I set her at the table with a crossword puzzle and a cup of chamomile, the steam curling up between us.

She smiles faintly, running her fingers over the pencil. “You always take care of everyone.”

I smile back, but my chest feels tight.

This is why I can’t let the sponsorship slip through my fingers. This is why the fake dating, the staged kisses, the risk of Colton finding out — it all has to work. Because if it doesn’t, I won’t be able to keep her here with me. And I can’t lose more family.

When Mom’s focused on the crossword, pencil scratching softly against the paper, I slip into the kitchen and open my laptop on the counter.

There’s an email from Heather at the sponsor’s PR team sitting at the top of my inbox.

Loved the coverage from your lunch at the diner — you and Damien have such natural chemistry. If possible, we’d love to see more of that in the coming weeks: casual photos, community events, even a quick video or two. You’re on the right track.

I read it twice, my stomach knotting tighter each time.

Natural chemistry.

The problem is, there’s nothing natural about any of this. Every smile, every touch, every kiss is a calculated move — and yet, somehow, Damien has a way of making it feel like the opposite.

I close the laptop and lean against the counter, pressing my palms into the cool laminate. If Heather wants more public moments, that means more exposure, more eyes, more chance for Colton to see us before we can manage the fallout.

The timing couldn’t be worse.

And yet… I need this deal. Badly. Without it, the podcast pays the bills, but there’s nothing left over for the kind of in-home care Mom’s going to need sooner rather than later. The thought of her slipping further without the right help is enough to make my throat ache.

So, I’ll give Heather what she wants. I’ll give the whole town what it wants.

I just have to keep Damien from seeing how much of me is starting to believe our own act.

The porch boards are warm from the afternoon sun, the smell of saltwater drifting in from the bay. I sit cross-legged with my laptop balanced on my thighs, the podcast file open in my editing program — a perfect decoy if anyone asks how I’m spending my day.

But I haven’t touched the track in twenty minutes.

Instead, I’m replaying every possible way Colton could react when he hears I’m “dating” Damien. Maybe he’ll laugh it off, figure it’s a joke. Or maybe he’ll see it as a petty swipe, some revenge for how things ended between us.

The truth is messier than either of those options.

Colton was easy to fall for… charming, steady, quick to smooth over conflict. And back then, I’d been starved for warmth after losing Aaron, desperate to hold on to anything that felt like a safe harbor. But Damien… Damien was the storm cloud on the horizon I couldn’t stop looking at.

The thought of them standing in the same room now, with all this between them, twists my stomach into a tight, cold knot.

I shift my focus back to my laptop, scrubbing through a section of audio just to feel productive, but the sound barely registers.

Movement across the street pulls my eyes up.

Damien’s truck eases into the Lawson driveway, sunlight glinting off the windshield. He gets out slowly, tool belt slung over one shoulder, moving with the unhurried ease of someone who doesn’t seem weighed down by small-town gossip, sponsorship deals, or brothers with bad timing.

For a moment, I just watch him. The set of his shoulders, the way he tilts his head like he’s already running through the day’s work in his mind.

And then he glances toward my house, catching me before I can look away.

Even from here, the faint curl of his mouth feels like trouble.

I tell myself not to read into it.

It’s just a look. A glance across the street from a man who probably doesn’t even know the kind of mess he’s made in my head.

But I can still feel the weight of it, even after he turns toward the house and disappears inside.

My fingers hover over my keyboard, the blinking cursor like a dare. Edit the podcast. Check the sponsor email again. Do literally anything except think about the way Damien’s mouth had looked when he smiled just now — or yesterday, pressed against mine in front of the whole damn diner.

I snap my laptop shut.

Through the thin slats of the porch railing, I can see the side of his truck, the gleam of his toolbox. I tell myself it’s good he’s over there and I’m over here. Space. Boundaries.

But the longer I sit, the more it feels like that look was an open door, and I’m already leaning toward it.

Somewhere in the kitchen, Mom calls my name, and I jerk back into myself, sliding my laptop under my arm as I stand.

Control. I need control.

And yet, with Damien just across the street, it feels like the one thing I’m losing fastest.