Breaking the Rules: The Dating Playbook, Book: 2 Page 11

  “The rules?”

  “Expectations,” she says, flipping her hands in short, panicky bursts. “This is beyond fancy. She called you Mr. Beckett.”

  “Breathe, Lawson.” I take her hand, threading it through my arm.

  She pauses, taking in the large entryway, the impressive staircase, the immense white walls, and white tiled floors. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to call me Ms. Lawson tonight.”

  I grin. “You know how I feel about rules.”

  Her eyes dance across the space as she follows me to the living room where over a hundred people are gathered, crystal glasses filled with champagne in their hands, while a string quartet plays in the corner.

  “It started with an f. Was it follow them? Finish them?” she teases.

  “Lincoln!” Carol, my dad’s fiancé, appears, wearing an ivory dress that falls to the floor and a tiara tucked into her dark hair. She leans forward, kissing my cheek. “You’re going to need to find your dad. He thought for sure you’d be late.” She turns her smile to Raegan. “You must be Raegan.”

  I brush my hand along her back, a gentle pressure in hopes of reminding her I’m swimming with her tonight among these sharks. Rae smiles, a natural and practiced reaction as she offers her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Carol takes her hand but looks at me. “Isn’t she adorable.”

  There are a thousand words one could use to describe Raegan Lawson, and adorable is near the bottom. Sexy, desirable, stunning, but adorable is a term one applies to a dog they see on a commercial—or a child who isn’t in the midst of a screaming fit—and a gross understatement to Raegan’s beauty.

  “Look who the cat dragged in,” Dad says, appearing in a black tux complete with a black shirt and freshly dyed dark hair to cover his grays, but failing to mask his age. He shakes my hand, his other patting my shoulder before looking at Raegan. He offers his hand, an appreciative smile tugging at his charm. It’s apparent with the way he tilts his head and uses both hands to shake hers. “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Noah.” He’s playing casual, which makes me bristle with unease. The only times my dad is this relaxed is when he’s either flirting, or he’s impressed. He doesn’t know enough about her to understand how impressive she is, which leads me to the initial. I stare at him, my eyes narrowed with a silent threat that I know he reads as he gingerly takes a step back, closer to Carol.

  “Raegan,” she says.

  “What a beautiful name for such a beautiful girl.” He shakes her hand too long, but she doesn’t seem to mind, smiling, and meeting his gaze. “How do you guys know each other?”

  “I’ve known Raegan for several years. She also attends Brighton. She’s in their marine biology program. Her father’s the dean of business there. Do you remember Dr. Lawson?”

  Dad pulls his chin back, his brows rising with surprise and pride as I give him the brief biography I know will put her in his good graces and help with the opportunity of introducing Rae to Dr. Swanson.

  “I had no idea Dr. Lawson was hiding such a beautiful daughter.” Dad smiles at her again, his gaze appreciative.

  “Well, he’s full of surprises,” Rae’s bright smile hides the fact her tone borders on contempt, but I catch the notes, staring at her to decipher the words.

  “I was planning to introduce Raegan to Dr. Swanson tonight since they both share a passion for marine biology.”

  Carol frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry. He’s not coming tonight.”

  I shake my head, knowing she’s wrong. Carol has familiarized herself with most people in my father’s life—to a startling degree. However, with everything she’s been doing to get the wedding moved and planning this event, I’m sure she’s wrong. Hell, I’m positive because I personally contacted the wedding planner to confirm the fact. “No. He’ll be here.”

  Carol shakes her head, her brow not creasing like it should as her eyes widen. “He had to cancel. Influenza. It’s that time of year, unfortunately.” She sighs quietly, looking at Dad. “I hope it doesn’t impact our wedding.”

  Dad dismisses her concern, turning his attention to Raegan. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. You know, he’ll be at the wedding. So, as long as my son stays in line, hopefully, you’ll be able to join us and meet him then.”

  I swear Raegan’s shoulders fall, but it’s difficult to decipher if it’s disappointment or relief as she flashes a fresh smile. “That’s no problem. He’s such an accomplished and ambitious individual that even though I was looking forward to the opportunity to meet him, I have to admit, I was a bit nervous.”

  Dad leans back like her disappointment is a personal burden. He’s smitten with her, and he doesn’t even know she’s smart and funny, and has more wit than most. That her heart seems three times larger than average.

  13

  Raegan

  Aside from the trip we took as a family to Italy when I was a freshman in high school, and we toured The Vatican, I can’t think of a time I’ve seen a place so fancy and grand. It doesn’t seem possible that this is merely a house, let alone for just two people. I stare at the far wall, the line of paintings that interrupt the stark white lines of the house.

  “You’re staring,” Lincoln whispers.

  I startle, looking at him with an apology in my eyes. I want to ask him a dozen questions, but I know none of them are appropriate nor any of my business.

  “Want to get a drink?” he asks.

  I nod, wishing I still had my purse so that I had something to busy my hands with as I follow Lincoln farther into the space, moving toward the large kitchen that is all gold and white, peppered with minimal teal decorations. A bar is set up near the island, which is piled with gifts.

  “Bourbon. Straight, and a vodka cranberry with a splash of orange juice.”

  The bartender nods to Lincoln’s order.

  “I didn’t age three years in the past two months,” I whisper.

  He shrugs. “Tell everyone its cranberry juice if you want.” His mask of indifference is firmly in place tonight, making this dress and party and rows of beautiful artwork seem like a tragic chore.

  Our drinks are served in heavy crystal glasses, poured with a heavy hand so they’re too full. Lincoln tips for the drinks and returns his hand to my back, guiding me a few feet forward, closer to the fireplace with a hearth so large five people could fit inside. I cradle my drink, terrified it might spill on the dress and mar its perfection, while looking at the guests milling around. Every person here looks dressed to go to a red-carpet event, pristine in every way. I wonder if the wedding will be fancier? If that’s even possible?

  Lincoln’s dad and future stepmom are shaking hands with an elderly couple. Neither of them appears surprised to see that Carol is several years younger—young enough, she looks capable of being his daughter. That thought propels my mind to the girl in my dad’s office. Noah’s hand is on her shoulder, but his gaze rarely falls on her. What brought them together? What intrigued my dad to have an affair?

  Lonely. That’s the word he’d used in the way of explanation.

  Is that why Lincoln’s dad has been married so many times?

  “How come you didn’t tell me tomorrow was your birthday?” Lincoln asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  I stare at him a moment, waiting for sense to catch up, for realization to dawn. His stare doesn’t ease. “We’re not exactly chit-chatting,” I tell him.

  He finishes his drink, his strong jaw tipping up, enunciating the cords of muscles in his neck and the hard plane of his chin. I once thought shirtless Lincoln was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, but tuxedo Lincoln is making a run for the title. “You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”

  “With what?”

  His eyebrows check me, the silent, you know what, clear and intentional. Even with his mask back up, I’ve started to know him and see past the mask by the way he answers, and the way he doesn’t, which is sometimes even louder. I kno
w by the hardness of his jaw, the flex of his fingers, the tilt of his head, the tone of his voice—I’m learning all of his details and each of their meanings.

  But he has no idea how broad this question is. I could easily list the things bothering me, including Maggie being gone, school becoming increasingly challenging, how I feel lost attempting to navigate my future. I could finally tell someone, admit that my dad is having an affair and has exposed distant and cold sides of himself that seem neither familiar nor warranted. Or admit that my mom is going to be crushed when she learns the truth, and how I feel obligated to be the one to tell her, and increasingly terrified as I continue dragging this mammoth of a lie. Or I could tell him how worried I am about Paxton, who has seemingly checked out of reality. Perhaps, I reveal how I’m risking my potential job offer with the aquarium as well as my future as a cetologist by continuing to fear the ocean. Then, I stare at him, realizing how him ignoring me has cast more doubt on myself than I ever thought possible, and how ashamed I am to admit the fact.

  I shake my head. “Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to pretend.”

  “Pretend what?”

  “That everything is easy.”

  He grins. “This is not the place to do that. Have you looked around?”

  “This house is unreal,” I admit. “I’m pretty sure my entire neighborhood could fit on the bottom floor.”

  He ignores my comment. “What are you doing for your birthday?”

  “I was going to check out a brothel downtown, and then maybe get drunk on some Everclear.”

  His patience is thin tonight, unimpressed by my growing desire to fictionalize everything. “It doesn’t matter.” I shrug. “I have class on Monday morning, and birthdays have never really been my thing.”

  “Not your thing?”

  “I feel like birthdays are reminders that nothing stays the same.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” He raises a single brow, his dark eyes misleading as he stares at me. “Most things aren’t made to last forever.”

  Unfortunately, it feels as though life is giving me a harsh reality check of that same lesson. “Do guys everywhere listen to a podcast or something that shares that same sentiment? One that cleanses your conscious, so that when you get bored or tired of the person in your life, you can make up some one-liners that make it all sound nice and easy?”

  “What?” His brows lower, his eyes boring into mine, working to find a foothold that will allow him into my thoughts. I shut him out by closing my eyes and taking a long drink that also helps prevent more bitter words from spilling out of my mouth. I wish I had a watch on, or that there was a clock visible so I could gauge how long I’ll be obligated to stay.

  I open my eyes and take a second pull when an older petite woman with hair the shade of midnight, wearing a royal blue dress and matching jacket approaches, her smile growing with every step. She barely slows as she wraps Lincoln in a hug. She’s so small, her head rests against his chest. His face is soft, a variety of a smile splayed across his lips that I’ve never seen.

  “Where have you been? It’s been at least a month since you’ve been home.” She pulls back and looks at me, her gaze critical and yet kind. “My name’s Gloria. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Raegan.”

  She laughs. It’s soft and warm. “Oh, I know.” Then she hugs me like we’re old friends, her grip secure. “I like her. I like she doesn’t expect to be known,” Gloria says, turning to Lincoln, and for the second time tonight, I feel like a contestant on a game show as people talk in front of me like I’m not here. I might care more about this if I weren’t so distracted by the fact this is the second person in Lincoln’s life who knows about me. Knows my name and possibly more. Do they assume we’re dating? That we’re friends?

  “She’s fucking kerosene,” Lincoln says, taking another drink from his crystal tumbler.

  I frown, but Gloria’s frown is greater, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “You talk like you were raised by wild dogs.”

  He grins. “Only one.” He winks.

  I have no idea if she’s his grandma or aunt, or how she fits into his life, only that she does.

  She hauls off and hits him again, but it’s softer, and her lips fight a smile that she loses the battle to, breaking into laughter. “Come on. Let’s have some dinner before they serve the meal.”

  I blink at the contradiction of words. I’m terrified to stain this dress, and I’m not sure how I’m going to sit down without several feet of clearance, but I’m still intrigued to see what kind of food they serve, certain my foodie of a best friend is going to be interested to hear all the details.

  Lincoln’s hand returns to the small of my back. “We’ll be right behind you. I was going to take Raegan on a quick tour. She has a thing for the Renaissance period. I was going to show her dad’s collection.”

  I don’t. I’m not even certain I could name a piece of artwork done during the Renaissance, apart from works done by Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo.

  Gloria nods. “Don’t take too long.”

  As she disappears across the room, Lincoln turns to me, his hand at my waist. “Why can’t you just tell me you’re mad at me?”

  “I’m not.” It’s a half-lie. Tonight, I’m fairly positive my anger is solely aimed at my father, and while it seemed at bay for several hours while I was distracted getting ready for tonight, his words seemed to pull the cover off entirely.

  “Bullshit,” he growls the word, leading us back toward the front door, dropping our empty glasses on a small table dressed in white linens before continuing straight for the elaborate staircase that is wide enough for four people to go up at once.

  “You ordered the same drink for me that Maggie ordered,” I say, a note of question in my tone because I’m curious if he knew and how, but more terrified to ask.

  “You said you liked it.”

  “I did?”

  He nods. “Paxton had asked what you were drinking, and you told him. Told him you liked it. If you don’t like this one, we’ll get something else.”

  “No, I do. I just didn’t know you knew…” I leave the trailed off sentence, though I hate them because my words—like my thoughts—are floundering.

  His jaw tics, his dark eyes narrowed as he sifts through my thoughts with a penetrating and invasive stare. I question what he finds? What might be revealed tonight when I feel so raw and bare?

  “Because you’re pretending tonight?”

  I shake my head. “What?”

  “If you haven’t realized how well I know you, then you’ve been pretending for a while.”

  His words feel cruel, opening that hollow spot in my heart that I’ve been working so hard to avoid, ignore, and fill with every other distraction available. Now is not the time to start wandering down this one-way tunnel guaranteed to leave me questioning too much and hoping for more.

  I have no idea where we’re going or why I’m following him, our steps the only sound as the party noise fades with the second floor coming into view. A voice in the back of my thoughts reminds me this is a bad idea. That only private things and secrets will happen this far from the others, and right now, I don’t wish to partake in either, but my traitorous heart continues, standing closer with the slightest squeeze from his fingers.

  The upstairs is more of the same cold white tiles and white walls, bright lights, and minimal furniture, opening up to another fireplace, this one of white marble with two white leather couches set in front of it, the mantle blank. Large columns hang near each entrance as we pass a large room housing a blue-felted billiards table.

  “Who’s Gloria?” I ask.

  “My dad hired her shortly after marrying my mom. My parents came from very different worlds, and I think he wanted to protect her from the reality of his world for as long as possible, so he hired Gloria. She helped prepare dinners when Dad invited partners over, and she helped Mom shop for scheduled trips and parties.” He watches me as though exp
ecting me to react to his words. I’m not sure which reaction he’s expecting and can’t offer one because it’s difficult for me to fathom this lifestyle, even tonight, when I’m stuck in the pages of fiction.

  “Then, when I was born, she helped take care of me.” He shrugs. “Not exactly a nanny because my mom was always here with me, but, sort of in that way, helping when they were out, watching me if my mom wasn’t feeling well, and later when she started meeting with counselors and lawyers leading up to their divorce.” He pulls in another breath, his chest rising as he shoves his hands into his pockets, a contradiction of strength with his broad shoulders and stacks of muscles to the story of the little boy he’s telling me about. “She’s not blood, but she’s family all the same.”

  We pass a wall of windows reminding me of an airport terminal as they go from floor to ceiling and are the first without heavy draperies blocking the view. I pause in front of one, the pane of glass a mirror because the sun has been set for a couple of hours, yet I know exactly what this view would be if it were light.

  “You have a view of the Sound.”

  “When I was a kid, I used to come up here and watch your orcas.”

  Hearing this makes my heart swell. A tie forms between us, one I have little doubt is made from fabrication and hope, knowing that just because he watched them doesn’t mean we share anything but a disconnected past. Still, a peacefulness seeps into my thoughts, picturing Lincoln as a boy, sitting for hours like orcas often require.

  I glance at his reflection in the window before turning to face him. “I can’t picture you as a kid,” I admit.

  His lips quirk with a smile. “That’s a good thing.”

  I laugh outright, the feeling so freeing I cling to it, stretching the moment when Lincoln chuckles along with me.

  “Come here.” He continues, and I hurry to catch up with him, debating why if one has an art collection, they’d tuck it this far away. Lincoln opens a door that breaks a suction, and I can feel the temperature change as we pass through the threshold, a series of lights flipping on with our steps. It’s a large square room without a single window of glass that looks out to a hallway and dozens of pictures that offer to take me into other worlds made of brush strokes and paint. Each wall seems to represent a different style of art, ones I don’t know their names of only their differences. Cartoonish figures with bright colors and straight lines beside images of paint that explode across the canvas in blobs and shapes that feel as messy as my emotions and thoughts, and then landscapes and portraits complete the space.