Page 9 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)
Chapter Nine
Damien
T he bell over the door lets out a tired jingle as Ronnie and I step into Cooper’s Supply.
The place smells like cedar planks and motor oil, same as it did when I was a kid running errands with my dad. Only difference is, back then, I didn’t feel the weight of every damn set of eyes the second I crossed the threshold.
Today, I do.
The murmur of conversation dips, like someone turned the volume down. A pair of guys by the PVC fittings glance up, then lean toward each other to whisper. A woman in a red windbreaker — Mrs. Pierce, I think — does a quick double take and pretends to study the aisle end cap.
I don’t have to guess what they’re talking about. News travels faster in Mariner’s Bluff than a nor’easter, and the whole town saw that diner kiss by now.
Ronnie doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “We need trim boards, two gallons of white semi-gloss, and—what else?”
I pull my cap lower and keep moving toward the lumber section. “Deck screws. Forty-five mil.”
The air feels thicker in here. It’s not just the looks — it’s the way it’s exactly the same as after Aaron died.
Everyone knew something happened, but no one really knew the truth.
Didn’t stop them from whispering about it at the counter while they ordered coffee, or cutting their eyes at me like I was walking proof of a rumor they couldn’t prove.
That was the thing about Mariner’s Bluff. Grief wasn’t private. Mistakes weren’t private. Hell, nothing was.
I learned that the hard way.
Ronnie grabs a cart, steering us toward the paint aisle like he’s on a Sunday stroll instead of an actual job. “Man, you are everywhere this week. You realize you basically made the front page without even trying?”
I grab two gallons of semi-gloss from the shelf and drop them into the cart. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, it’s exactly like that,” he says, grinning. “Whole town saw you and Lyla Hart making out at the diner. Hell, Mrs. Kinney at the register was saying it was ‘just like the movies.’”
I grunt, moving toward the trim boards. “It was for her sponsorship thing.”
Ronnie chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. You keep telling yourself that.”
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is, I’ve told myself the same thing since it happened — that it was staged, just a way to sell the fake dating bit. But when I felt her lean in without hesitation, when I caught that sharp inhale before she kissed me back… it didn’t feel like acting. Not even close.
I hook a thumb toward the next aisle. “Get the deck screws.”
He goes, still humming under his breath like he knows something I don’t.
I’m loading a bundle of trim boards onto the cart when I catch movement in my periphery.
Two older guys in work jackets — both of them fixtures around here — are standing by the rack of drill bits. One tilts his head toward me, murmurs something, and the other’s mouth curves in that knowing way people get when they think they’ve got the story straight.
I’ve seen that look before.
Back then, it came with lowered voices at the marina, pity disguised as curiosity at the diner. They’d say they were sorry for my loss, and I’d nod like I didn’t hear the rest of it in their tone — the unspoken but you were there, weren’t you? You could’ve stopped it.
Aaron was gone, and I couldn’t change that.
But staying here meant living inside the echo chamber of everyone else’s version of events.
Every time I walked into a store, I could feel it pressing in — the questions they never asked out loud, the theories they traded when they thought I wasn’t listening.
So I stopped giving them the chance. Packed my tools, took the first job that got me out of Mariner’s Bluff, and didn’t look back.
Until now.
We roll the cart toward the checkout, the paint rattling in its cans and the boards squeaking in the metal basket.
“You still planning to head out tomorrow?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.
“Yup,” Ronnie says. “Got a kitchen remodel in Seaford lined up for Monday. Why?”
I shrug, adjusting my grip on the cart handle. “Could use the extra hands for the next few days. Be easier to finish the trim with two of us.”
He glances over with a smirk. “Or is it that you don’t trust yourself alone with the pretty neighbor you’re ‘dating’?”
I shoot him a look. “It’s not like that.”
“Right,” he says, drawing the word out. “That kiss in the diner didn’t look like two people faking it. Looked more like a guy finally making a move he’s been sitting on for years.”
I don’t answer.
Because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure I’ll be able to lie about that.
Ronnie grins like he’s already won and turns to unload the cart. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine without me. Besides, I’m starting to think she doesn’t need a fake boyfriend — she needs someone to admit he’s not faking.”
The afternoon sun bounces off the truck’s hood as we load the supplies into the bed. Paint first, then the trim boards stacked tight so they won’t shift.
Ronnie slides the last bundle into place and dusts off his hands. “Oh — meant to tell you. Saw your brother down at the marina yesterday.”
I glance up from securing the straps. “Colton?”
“Yeah. He was grabbing lunch with some guy from his team.” Ronnie leans against the tailgate like this is nothing.
“Told him I’ve been helping you on the house.
Mentioned the kiss thing, and he just said…
” Ronnie pauses, then does his best impression of Colton’s easy charm.
“‘Looking forward to catching up with my big brother.’”
I freeze, ratchet strap halfway tightened. “He said that?”
Ronnie nods. “Even smiled when he said it.”
My gut goes cold. I know that smile. It’s the same one he used when he was lining up a perfect pass on the field — or setting someone up for a blindside hit they never saw coming.
Ronnie shrugs, oblivious. “Guess word really does get around here.”
Yeah. Too fast.