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

mozzarella, and basil leaves skewered with toothpicks and drizzled with a balsamic glaze, fruits, vegetables, braided bread, crostini with artful toppings, and more fill the kitchen island.

“You’ll like these,” I say, pointing at the mini quiches.

“They have vegetables,” he says. “No way.”

I grab one and take a bite. There’s a little onion, but not enough that he will be able to tell over the bacon and cheese. “Bacon,” I tell him. “We have these every year. Those are ham, and these are bacon. These are the ones with the veggies.” I point at the ones with red bell peppers and tiny bits of broccoli coloring the top. “And you like the cheese and crackers.” I stop on the deviled eggs. “Mom made deviled eggs?”

Dylan shrugs, the detail seemingly inconsequential to him but beyond bizarre to me because my mom has always considered them retro and overly hyped.

“I feel like you lied to me,” Mike says, making me jump. Thoughts are racing through my head as I try to read his expression, which seems too joyful and humorous for such an accusation. Does he know that I lied? Did Paxton say something? Is that why I haven’t heard from him today?

“You always said your mom didn’t do anything big for the holidays.”

I stare at him, my relief coming as short breaths that slowly inflate my lungs. I look across the dining room and kitchen and beyond to the family room at the ceramic pumpkins. “She doesn’t,” I tell him. “This is a first for the decorations and a first for this much food. And she let my dad and Dylan bring out the Christmas tree.” I glance at where my mom is talking to his mom. “Maybe she’s been abducted by aliens.”

Mike chuckles. “People change. You’ve always loved the holidays. Maybe she’s doing this for you?”

His gaze is balanced on mine, unwavering and confident. It’s not fair because I feel everything but confident while standing across from him. Everything involving him from moving here to moving here with a girlfriend to being in my class to having him here right now feels like an anvil hitting me. I feel hesitant and nervous about what more he might be hiding from the past couple of years.

“It’s likely for her new book,” I say. “She’s probably running a social experiment. We should play along and eat.” I reach for a plate and scan over the food, recalling Paxton asking me why girls don’t eat in front of guys as my stomach lacks all interest in the tasty treats. Still, I fill my plate, hoping the nerves subside.

“Poppy, did you offer Mike something to drink?” Mom asks.

I glance at my filled cup and plate to Mike’s empty hands. “Sorry,” I say, setting my dishes on the kitchen counter. “What can I get you? Cider? Water? Pop?”

“Surprise me,” he says.

“We don’t have Mountain Dew,” I tell him.

That familiar spark hits his gaze, and I can tell he likes that I can recall his favorite drink. It would be impossible not to. He drank a Mountain Dew every day of high school. I turn toward the fridge in an attempt to ignore his expression. “We have orange juice, carbonated water, Pepsi, Sprite…” I push aside the milk, knowing he doesn’t drink it.

“Pepsi would be great,” he says.

I pull out the chilled can and hand it to him. Our fingers brush as he takes it. It isn’t intentional, but I compare his fingers to Paxton’s. Mike has artist’s fingers, long and thin, his nails short and clean with rounded cuticles, whereas Paxton’s fingers are thicker, his cuticles squared. Sometimes he carries a tennis ball around that he squeezes to work on his grip, and I study his hands, watching the muscles and tendons flex and release.

I withdraw my hand, close the fridge door, and take the long way around the extended kitchen island toward my plate and cup.

“Want to take this outside?” Mike asks.

My plate starts to tip, but I correct it and take a breath. He makes me feel so unbalanced and nervous that I begin to feel self-conscious over the fact. My cheeks are likely pink. I want to prove to him and me that I’m not affected by him. “Sure. Yeah. Do you want to grab some food first?”

He looks at my plate. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“You know I don’t share food,” I remind him.

Mike laughs. “We’re about to eat a whole turkey dinner. There’s no way you can eat all of that and then a meal.”

I eye my plate, realizing I filled it fuller than I should have.

“Come on,” he says.

No one is paying attention. Mom’s engaging Dylan to tell the Rios about his piano lessons, making our escape too easy.

Mike leads us out to the sunroom, where the temperature is at least twenty degrees colder than the house. Goosebumps line my skin.

“Why isn’t your boyfriend here?” Mike asks, catching me off guard once more. It feels like every time I line up a defense, he comes at me from another angle, although I should have seen this one coming.

I shake my head. “Why don’t you say his name?” I ask.

Mike nods once and then takes a drink of his pop. “Because I don’t like him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough.”

I shake my head. “You don’t know anything.”

“How’d that come about, anyway?”

“What?”

“You dating a meathead.”

“He’s not a meathead.”

“He’s a jock,” Mike says.

“You of all people should hate stereotypes. How many people assumed you were a massive pothead because you liked grunge music?”

“I was a pothead.”

“You smoked twice. That hardly constitutes being a pothead.” I sit on the overstuffed wicker couch, indignation resting against my nerves.

I expect a sarcastic retort, but instead, Mike grins and takes a seat beside me, leaving a large enough gap that Dylan could fill the space. “I’m not trying to argue. Let’s call a truce.”

“Pax is a good guy.”

Mike nods. “But is he good enough?”

I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure that’s none of your business.”

He lifts