My Rules (Kingston Lane Book 2)

Confusion runs through my body . . . then panic . . . then, like an avalanche, an overwhelming sense of relief.

“That sounds . . .” What’s the word I’m looking for? “Perfect.”

Silence.

I close my eyes, unsure what that silence means.

“Bec,” he says softly.

My heart is beating so hard in my chest that I can hear it in my ears.

“Yes.”

“Can I have your number?”

I smile softly. “It’s 555-7289.”

“Okay.”

More silence.

“I have to go. Good night, Rebecca.”

“Good night, Blake.” I hang up. Did that really just happen?

My phone begins to ring, and the name Blake lights up the screen. I laugh out loud. That idiot.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Hi, Rebecca, it’s Blake Grayson. We met the other day. I’m not sure if you remember me.”

“Ah, yes, Blake.” I smile as I play along. “I do remember you.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me?”

My stomach flutters. “I’d like that. Where do you want to go?”

“I know this fabulous Italian restaurant.”

“You do?” I smile. “What’s it called?”

“Little Italy. Shall I meet you there, or . . . ?”

“Why don’t you pick me up?”

“I can do that.”

“Actually, let’s keep Carol on her toes, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Good idea.”

I can tell that he’s smiling, because I’m smiling too.

We both hang on the line, and there’s this weird, serendipitous feeling floating between us. Like a tangible force. I can feel it.

Can he feel it too?

“I’ll be home on Monday,” he says softly.

“Good. I don’t like you being away.”

“Me neither.”

“Good night, Blake.” I smile.

“Good night, Rebecca.” The line goes dead as he hangs up.

I stare at the phone in my hand, giddy as a schoolgirl.

Holy shit.

Sunday

“You need to sign here.” John points to the line. “And here.” He turns the page. “And then on this page.”

He slides the paperwork over, and my eyes skim the lines as I read.

“Here’s a pen.” He holds the pen up for me and taps it on the table, as if to hurry me up.

“I’m reading exactly what I’m signing, thank you.” I take the pen from him and keep reading; I might have been stupid enough to trust him before . . . but not now.

That girl is long gone.

I slowly read through everything, and surprisingly, it’s exactly as he promised. The house is mine as long as I don’t legally divorce him for five years. After that time, this contract is void, and the house will remain mine. If I try to break this contract earlier and demand a divorce, then the house will go back to joint ownership between us, and the usual divorce settlement laws will come into place. The other properties we own cannot be sold or moved out of his or my name until this contract term is over.

The thing is, I know that if it ever comes to that, the house is as good as gone. I can’t afford to buy his half out, and there is no way he would just sign it over. He’ll sell it out of spite; he knows this is the only weapon he has left to hurt me.

I haven’t told anyone I’m signing this, because deep down I know they will all tell me it’s a mistake. But it’s the only way I can guarantee the outcome. If we do go to court, there’s a big risk that I’ll lose it.

Not that I would expect anyone to understand this, but my home is the only thing I have left from what I thought was my happily ever after . . . and I’m keeping it as a souvenir. It’s not just bricks and mortar; this is personal. A big fuck you to my pathetic excuse of a marriage.

I hold the pen to the paper and hesitate. Should I do this?

Yes.

Yes, I should.

I sign on the dotted line. I turn the page and sign again, and then again on the last page. I exhale heavily when I’m done, as if a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I look up into John’s satisfied smile.

“I knew you didn’t want to divorce me.” He takes my hand over the table.

I snatch it from his grip. “Oh, but I will.”

He smiles, as if knowing a secret. “We’re going to get through this. You and me . . . we are meant to be.”

I stare at this evil, deluded man . . . he has no grip on reality at all.

“You know what?” I push out my chair. “I don’t feel like lunch anymore.”

“But you promised.”

“Promises can be broken, John.” My eyes hold his. “I learned that from the best.” I turn and walk out of the restaurant and smile as I hit the fresh air.

I did it.

I don’t have to live in fear anymore . . . the house will always be mine.

I win.

Blake

Monday night

I sit on the plane and smile out the window. I’m finally going home.

It’s been a long week.

And tomorrow . . . I get to see her.

I don’t get nervous.

But this date has me jumpy. The ramifications of the outcome are important and involve something that I very much want.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous about anything. I rub the backs of my fingers through my stubble as I think about how things could go right or what could go wrong.

There’s only one thing I know for certain: I get one chance, and one chance only, with her.

I can’t fuck this up.

Rebecca

Tuesday night

I pull tissues out of the box and put them under my arms.

I can’t stop sweating.

My nerves are at an all-time high.

I’m in my underwear and putting on my makeup, and damn it, if this keeps going, I’ll have to take another shower before I even leave the house.

I dab my forehead with a tissue and then fan my face as I pace back and forth in the bathroom. I glance at the requested red dress that is laid out on my bed, and I feel my stomach drop.

Jeez . . .

In the words of Taylor Swift, I need to calm down.

This is just ridiculous. It’s only Blake.

He sees me in a face mask every other day, and never once has he flinched. Why am I so worried?

Because tonight is important.

I know damn well that we are probably only going to get one shot at this date, and if it doesn’t go well and we don’t click romantically . . . then I don’t know where that lands us.

The only thing I am sure of is that it won’t be the same between us ever again.

But in saying that . . . I do think it’s worth the risk.

At least, I hope it is.

Perspiration beads on my top lip, and I reach in and turn on the tap. Time for a second cold shower.

The Uber pulls up outside of Little Italy, and I close my eyes.

This is it.

“Thank you.” I smile.

“Have a good night.” The driver nods.

“You too.” I get out of the car, and with shaky feet, I walk into the restaurant.

It’s dark and moody, and candles flicker on every table. There is someone being checked in in front of me.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump goes my heart.

I look around and see Blake stand and wave. He’s by a table at the back, and he’s wearing my favorite blue jeans.

I nervously make my way over. He stands and watches me as he waits, and . . . oh man.

What was I thinking?

“Hello.” I smile.

“Hi.” He leans down and kisses my cheek. The familiar heavenly scent of his aftershave tickles my senses. “You look lovely.” He smiles.

“Thanks.”

He pulls my chair out, and I sit down.

Adrenaline is screaming through my body, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous.

He sits down opposite me and smiles softly as his eyes hold mine. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Are you okay?” he asks, as if sensing my inner turmoil.

“I’m nervous.”

He reaches over and takes my hand in his. “Me too.” He lifts it and kisses my fingertips, and goose bumps scatter up my arms as I stare at him.

“We should drink . . . alcohol,” I stammer.

He laughs out loud, and it’s a beautiful, calming sound. “All of it.”

“I actually can’t believe we’re doing this,” I whisper.

“I can.” In slow motion, he lifts my hand and kisses my fingertips again. This time, I feel it all the way to my toes. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“You have?” I frown.

He nods.

“That’s not creepy at all.” I smirk.

He smiles bashfully as he rearranges the napkin on his lap. “Maybe a little.”

“So . . .” I shrug as I look around. “What happens now?”

“You drink red wine while I try my hardest to charm you.”

“What if I’m already charmed?”

“It’s not nearly enough.” His eyes search mine, and I smile over at the beautiful man opposite me. He’s just as nervous as I am.

A waitress arrives with a bottle of red, and she begins to uncork it.

“Thank you.” He smiles.

She fills our glasses and brings out her notepad. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the beef ragù,” I tell her.

Blake smiles softly over at me as the air crackles between us.

“I’ll have the fettucine,” he replies, his eyes not leaving mine. “Thank you.”

The waitress disappears, and Blake reaches around and grabs the side of my chair and pulls it toward him so that we are sitting together. “That’s better.” His eyes hold mine, and there’s an intensity to them that I haven’t seen before.

“Is this where I get to experience the Blake Grayson A-game date?” I ask.

“No.” He rolls his lips, as if unsure what to say next, and an awkward silence falls between us.

“Can I?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think the best way to not let nerves get the better of us is to . . .” I shrug. “Pretend that we don’t know each other.”

He smirks over at me.

“Maybe we could pretend that we just met on Bumble?”

“You know we were matched last weekend,” he replies.

“What?” I frown. “How do you know?”

“Because I swiped on you.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiles. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see it.”

“I honestly didn’t. I haven’t been on the app at all.”

“Swipe on me.” He sips his wine, and he has that mischief in his eyes that he gets.

“What, now?” I smile.

“Why not?” He shrugs.

“Okay.” I open the app and go through my matches.

“How many do you have?” He frowns as he looks down at my phone. “Did everyone on the app swipe on you?”

I shrug. “I’m a woman, and men are pretty easy to . . .” I widen my eyes. “Hook.”

I scroll and scroll. “This is me,” he says.

“Which one?”

“Go back.”

I scroll back up, and there’s a picture taken from behind of a man with a surfboard.

“This isn’t you.” I frown.

“Well, it is. About ten years ago.” He sips his wine again. “In Spain, I think.”

“Okay.” I smile as I swipe on him. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I read the bio.

Looking for Andie Anderson.

“Oh my god.” I put my hand to my mouth in surprise. “That is your heading?”

He chuckles and throws me a sexy wink. “Works every time.”

“You are the living end.” I laugh out loud.

“Andie Anderson is the quintessential dream girl . . . even for me.”

I laugh harder. Andie Anderson is the lead character in the movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

“That is good, I have to admit. Every woman on earth knows who Andie Anderson is . . . and wants to be her. They also want a Benjamin.”

He gives me a slow, sexy smile.

I keep reading.

Qualities: Fun loving.

Interested in: Margarita-loving people.

“Wait a minute, is this aimed at . . .”

“Who doesn’t love a good margarita?”

I smile and keep reading.

Favorite Pastime: Ripping the nets off those slutty oranges.

Huh? I get a vision of how you have to tear the oranges out of their bag, and I throw my head back and laugh out loud. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” He laughs too. “You got to admit, they’re begging for it. Tearing off those net bags is the highlight of my life.”

This is the funniest thing I’ve ever read, and I can’t stop laughing. It’s so true. Tearing the nets off oranges is just like tearing off fishnet stockings.

“Those slutty oranges . . .”

“Right.” He widens his eyes. “Begging for it.”

No wonder every woman wants to meet him. He has no profile picture, he’s not loving himself, and his answers are all intelligent, witty, and funny. And then when he walks into the date . . . their jaws must fall to the floor because they realize they’ve hit the jackpot.

He pulls out his phone. “Let me read yours.”

“No.” I try to grab his phone from him. “Mine seems so lame now.”

“You could never be lame.” He swipes on me and frowns when he reads my heading.

Looking for someone to stay young with.

His eyes rise to meet mine. “Why that answer?”

“Well . . .” I shrug. “Everyone always says they are looking for someone to grow old with.”

His eyes hold mine. “But not you?”

“I want someone to stay young with.”

He goes back to reading.

Interested in: Honesty.

Favorite pastime: Laughing.

He smiles as he reads and casually reaches over and picks up my hand and puts it on his thigh.

I feel his thick quad muscle beneath my hand, and I hold my breath as I watch him read my profile.

Hoping for: A fairy tale.

His brow furrows as he reads the last line, and he puts his phone down. His eyes rise to meet mine. “We have something in common.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m looking for a fairy tale too.”

We stare at each other as the air crackles between us, and this is probably premature, but I get the feeling that this is going to be the best date of my life.

“I don’t need to wait for the tiramisu,” he whispers.

My eyes search his as my heart free-falls from my chest.

In slow motion, he leans over and kisses me, his lips barely brushing over mine, and huge butterflies swirl deep in my stomach.

Oh . . .

“Why not?” I whisper against his lips.

“Because . . . I already know.”

Five hours later

The cab pulls onto Kingston Lane. “Just the white house on the left,” Blake directs the driver. The street is dark and deserted, unlike my heart. For I am bright and full.

What a magical night. We laughed until my sides hurt.

He kissed me once at dinner, but not again since, and to be honest, I feel like I’ve been waiting for his next kiss all night.

But maybe that’s his game. Maybe this is all part of his grand plan.

Give me a taste . . . and then take it away.

And now that we’re here, arriving at home, I’m suddenly nervous again. What happens now? Does he kiss me goodbye?

Do I invite him in for coffee?

What is expected in this situation? I’m just not sure . . .

God, I hate dating. I hate not knowing what’s going to happen next.

The car pulls up at my house, and I gingerly climb out. Blake pays the driver and walks with me up onto my porch.

“So . . .”

He turns to face me. “So . . .”

We stare at each other, and it’s there again, the electricity bouncing between us.

A force so strong and foreign to me.

I’ve never felt it before.

I smile softly. “I had a great time.”

“Me too.”

I get the feeling that he’s as nervous as I am.

“Um . . .” I frown as I try to articulate my feelings. “I was wondering.”

“What?” His eyes search mine, and I know that he wants me to invite him in.

“I . . .” I swallow the lump of sand in my throat. “Can we . . . take things a little slow?”

He nods. “Okay.” He steps back from me as if I’m rejecting him.

I take his two hands in mine. “I just want to . . .” I shrug as I look out into the street. “I really want this to work out.”

“Me too.”

“And I haven’t . . .”

“I know.”

My eyes search his. “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me again all night.”

He gives me a slow, sexy smile and takes my face in his hands. “It nearly killed me not to.” His lips take mine, and he kisses me softly. He towers over me, and his large stature emits power.

My eyes close as my feet feel like they rise from the floor.

His kiss deepens, and I feel a little tongue, just a whisper. A hint of what it could be.

Oh . . . the way he kisses.

Just when I’m beginning to relax into it, he steps back from me. “I’ll let you go.”

“Oh.” I nod, embarrassed. “Okay.” My eyes search his.

“So . . .” He points to his house with his thumb. “Blake Grayson, your date, is going to go home now.”

“Right.” I nod again.

“And Blake, your friend . . . was wondering if you wanted to watch a movie on your fold-out.”

I smirk.

He holds up his two hands, as if surrendering. “Completely platonic movie-watching only . . . don’t get any ideas.”

“On one condition,” I reply.

“What’s that?”

“We wear face masks while we watch,” I tell him as I put my key into the door.

“Deal.” We walk inside. “But I’m telling you, if an alien with two cocks arrives, you’re taking one for the team.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I frown.

His eyes flick up, as if he’s surprised. “Ignore me, I’m drunk.”