Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

Mike snickers, reminding me of the jokes he used to direct toward the jocks and those who followed them around that he always referred to as sheeple.

Maddie jabs him with her elbow. “I’m social, too,” she says. “I keep trying to force him out of his shell. Sometimes it feels like I have to use a crowbar.” She points at him.

“Opposites attract, right?” I say.

Maddie smiles. “Exactly.”

Mike looks at me with a knowing look I don’t want to try and decipher.

“Hey. There you are.” Pax slides his hand around my waist. I feel his fingers through my sweatshirt. His body is a shield to the fire that had felt too hot, and I shiver at the loss of the heat. He must feel it because he shifts closer.

I want to remind him I’ve been here all night—but then think better of it. Usually, whenever I hear a woman make a comment like that, they’re perceived as needy or nagging. Is that where things went wrong with Chase? He had told me I was nagging on more than one occasion.

My relationships with Mike and Chase join my current pretend one and juggle through my thoughts, causing me to miss what Maddie says.

Paxton’s fingers gently knead into my side. “Yeah, we’ll see you guys later,” he says.

Relief runs through me as Maddie smiles and offers a parting wave. “See you later.”

“Bye. Have a good night,” I say.

“You might need to be a little less obvious,” Pax whispers.

“Obvious about what?”

“You were staring at him.”

“I was not.”

“Only like you hadn’t eaten in three days, and he was a loaf of bread.”

“It wasn’t intentional. I was lost in thought for a minute.”

“Thoughts about him.”

“Actually, I was thinking about what constitutes nagging.”

Paxton blinks. “Come again?”

“Nagging,” I tell him. “Why do I only ever hear the term directed at women? I mean, I get it, there are some people who probably nag, but if a guy shows up late or forgets to call or misses something important and the girl calls him on it, why is it labeled nagging?”

Pax rubs his hand over his hair. “I feel like this is a trick question.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know the context behind the question.”

“There doesn’t have to be a specific context, it’s a generalized question. Do guys not nag? Are their feelings and thoughts somehow perceived as less annoying?”

Paxton tilts his head back a fraction and blinks. I’m prepared for him to ask me if I’m on my period or another sarcastic retort that I have no doubt most guys in his shoes would be using. “I never really thought about it,” he says instead, as his lips dip with a frown. He cuts his front teeth over his bottom lip, drawing my gaze to his mouth. “My dad used to accuse my mom of nagging him when he got home late, and you’re right, I can’t think of a single time my mom accused him of nagging though he used to bitch about her coming home late for years.” He looks at me, the reflection of the fire dancing across the dark parts of his eyes. “It’s kind of a dick word, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“Maggie sometimes talks about gender role theories. She started getting interested during high school because she’s all about feelings and emotions and that shit.”

I laugh, and Paxton grins.

“Since she began traveling to different countries around the world, she’s been more interested. Your question would likely open an entire conversation about the social roles of males and females and how society allows a lack of accountability from men more than women. I mean, it happens on both sides, but as women, you guys definitely have a steeper and bigger mountain to face.”

“I’m sorry your game sucked,” I say.

Paxton’s gaze flashes to mine and then hovers on my cheek where his number stains my skin. His nearness heats my skin, reminding me of my summer in Florida and how the heat consumed me the moment I stepped outside. That’s what it feels like to be inches away from Pax. A smile is visible in his eyes. It’s another tiny detail I commit to memory because, for some reason, I want to include it in my journal tonight. He looks beyond me for a moment, and I wonder if I’m staring too long? “He’s watching you,” Pax says. Then his eyes return to mine. “He still doesn't believe our relationship is real. Ready to own it?”

My stomach falls as Paxton’s hands encircle my waist, making me feel small compared to his height and broad shoulders that block most of my view. He leans closer, and I catch the scent of soap and the hint of his cologne as his lips edge closer to mine, lacking the same hesitation that is making it difficult for me to remember how to breathe. “Picture me as Mike,” he says. “It’ll make it easier.” Then he seals his lips over mine, warm and gentle. He tastes like spearmint, and his hands feel hot against my lower back as he holds me like he knows my knees feel like they’re made of Play-Doh.

I place my hands on his waist. The defined muscles that make up his torso feel like granite under his thin team sweatshirt. The light stubble across his chin rubs against mine. I try to block out the label that wants to mark this situation and remind me that I’m kissing my best friend’s brother. Pax must sense my inner conflict, because he tilts his head, allowing him better access to tease my lips with his tongue, and the sensations of his mouth and tongue silence my thoughts and the party. I meet his kisses, matching him lick for lick, my body heating as he pulls me closer with a gentleness that seems impossible for his strength and size. He pulls away, kissing me lightly on the lips. My eyes feel weighted and my head dazed.

“Look. He saw it. He’s totally buying it,