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

he answers the door. It’s Monday, week two post rules. I was supposed to make dinner for Poppy at her house, but Rae had the night off, and Lincoln was going over there, so I invited her to our place instead.

“I’m in the kitchen,” I call out as I take a step backward so I can get a clear shot of her.

“You better be barefoot,” she says. “You know how I like my men.”

Caleb snickers and returns to the couch with his gaming controller. I grab a dish towel and wipe my hands, pausing in the doorway as Poppy stops beside Caleb. I can sense her unease from here. Rae had pointed out to me on more than one occasion how Poppy and Caleb are virtually strangers, but it hadn’t really resonated until she began coming to Mario’s Pizzeria with me and studying, and I realized how although Poppy is friendly with everyone, she is a true introvert. We’d talked about it a little last week, and she mentioned how being around people more often makes things either easier or harder. And once more, I find myself intrigued and curious about what she’d meant and stowing questions away for our afternoon.

“How are things with Julie going?” Poppy asks.

Caleb keeps the controller in his hands but lowers it to his lap. “Pretty good. She’s at class right now.”

“She seemed really nice. I really liked hanging out with her at the birthday party.”

“She liked you, too.”

The information paints a private and shy smile on her face that is authentic and reveals that this is significant to her.

“I’m glad. I hope she comes to our Friendsgiving event. I think it’s going to be a lot of fun.”

Caleb nods again. He isn’t trying to give her a hint and tell her to leave him alone, it’s just he’s an introvert himself and has never been one for small talk.

Poppy extends a smile, this one tight-lipped and exposing she’s starting to feel uncomfortable. She takes a step and then stops. “Oh, by the way, I brought something for you.” She slides her purse down to the crook of her arm and rifles through its contents. “I know you’re studying forensic psychology, and my mom said this is one of the most underrated books in the field. I can’t attest to any of it, but I brought you a copy in case you didn’t have it.” She offers him a hefty paperback.

Caleb looks at her and then the book. “Thanks, Poppy. That’s really cool of you.” He looks at it again. “I know the author. I actually heard an interview he did. I had no idea he wrote a book.” Excitement raises his tone. “Oh shit, this is signed,” he says, flipping over the front page. “I can’t take this.”

Poppy shakes her head. “My mom has like a dozen copies and she was happy to make room on her bookcase. She offered me to give you one that she co-wrote with someone as well, but it seemed all kinds of awkward to give you a book signed by my mom.”

Caleb grins. “No. That’s cool. Are you sure about this?”

Poppy nods. “Positive.”

“Thanks. This is really nice. I’ll definitely read it.”

Her smile grows, restoring to the fuller and brighter version that I’ve noticed is often present in moments of security. She looks up, noticing me, and her smile falters for a second like she’s embarrassed I just witnessed their exchange. “I’m going to get something to drink,” she says to Caleb and then continues toward me.

On these days, our fake relationship is most effortless because we’re not putting on a show. We hang out and do homework and talk about things, learning about one another.

“I hope you brought your appetite.”

She pauses and lifts her nose, and closes her eyes. “Wow, that smells good. What are you making?”

“Chicken piccata with garlic parmesan mashed potatoes.”

Her eyes round, and she takes another look at the stovetop. “Are you taking culinary courses on the side?”

My grin is unstable. She likely already knows this, but still, I tell her about where my comfort in the kitchen was born. “I grew up cooking with my parents, especially my dad. We’d talk shop and cook together.”

“My mom was the order-in type.”

I grin. “Mine likely would’ve been too if they could’ve afforded it.” Poppy knows we didn’t grow up with the kind of money most kids at our high school had. We attended the same private school because our mom taught there.

“It’s a good life skill,” she says. “Girls like a guy who can cook … as you likely already know.”

“I only cooked for Candace a few times.”

“A few times?”

“She didn’t like coming over here, and her house had almost nothing for cooking, and the few times I tried, they got mad about the smell and the mess it made while I was cooking.”

“They were missing out. I’m still thinking about the alfredo you made me last week.” She moves closer to the stove. “I’m hoping the smell of this latches on to me. I could wear this as a perfume, and I’d be the most popular girl at school.”

I grin. One of my favorite things about Poppy is how she doesn’t like to talk crap about anyone.

“Can I help with anything?” she asks.

“No. It’s just about ready. I just need to deglaze the pan so we have a sauce for the chicken and potatoes. It’s usually served with pasta, but I heard you say you like mashed potatoes when we were at Catalina’s, so I thought this could be a good substitute.”

“Wrong. I love mashed potatoes.”

“Why are girls always embarrassed to eat in front of guys?”

Poppy looks at me. “Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing wrong?” She grins to show she’s joking. “I don’t know. I think it’s likely because we’re nervous, and we don’t want stuff stuck in our teeth. Probably also because there are still a lot of societal norms that we want to defy, but still feel the weight and impact of.”

I