Unspoken Rules (Rules 2)

“So… you did kiss her?” I ask even though I fear the answer.

He doesn’t reply right away, easing himself deeper into the driver’s seat like he’s trying to disappear. “Yeah.”

My heart aches. I try to cover my wince. At least he’s honest.

“Well, was it any good?” I feign carelessness.

Please, don’t answer that.

He glances at me in silence. Then, his gaze travels downward to my lips for an everlasting moment that sends shivers down my spine.

“I’ve had better.”

Is he talking about what I think he’s talking about?

Without a word, he leaves my thoughts to spiral out of control and fires up the car to get us back on the highway. I spend the next fifteen minutes reprimanding myself for letting the word friend out of my mouth. We can’t be just friends. Not after everything that happened. Not after he almost stripped me down in that motel room the day before the fight. He seemed to agree with my word vomit. He didn’t fight it. Does he actually want to be buddies? Did I ruin my chances?

We ride in heavy silence for about half an hour until he says, “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” I watch the approaching exit.

When he takes it, I dare believe that maybe, just maybe, wherever we’re going… it’s somewhere where we won’t be “just friends.”

He turns to look at me and smiles. “Home.”

6

The Lake House

“No way. This is your place?” I shamelessly gawk at the wood-built house that overlooks the most breathtaking lake I’ve ever seen.

“Kind of. It belongs to my parents, but they haven’t used it in years,” Haze says, taking a slow turn and pulling up to the long asphalt driveway.

I admire the tall trees circling the impressive property and the sunrays peeking through the waving leaves. Haze parks the car and the engine dies down in a rumble.

“Don’t worry, it’s prettier inside.”

I fight the urge to punch him on behalf of all middle-class people everywhere. If he thinks this is ugly, he needs to see the one-bedroom dumpster I used to live in with my mom.

I can tell from the way he bites back a grin that he doesn’t mean it and he’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. I know Haze is rich. Allow me to revise: I know his parents are rich. But this is on a whole other level.

“Hold on,” he says, getting out of the car.

I watch him walk around the vehicle and open the trunk. He gets our luggage and my crutches out, drops them onto the porch, and comes back to open my door.

In a week, I’ll be able to walk on my own again. Until then, this guy who’s just a “friend” is going to have to give me a hand. He’s the one who showed up and claimed he wanted to protect me. Well, now he’s going to have to play nurse whether he likes it or not.

When he helps me out of the car, tightly wraps one arm around my waist so that I can find my balance, and pulls me closer, I swear the eighteen years I spent breathing properly vanish and I have to learn all over again.

Standing on one foot, I have no choice but to press my body to his. I instinctively look up and regret it when our eyes connect. Again, I think I see his gaze drop to my lips for one fleeting second, but I’m way too focused on trying not to kiss him myself to be sure. I’m brought back to reality when he clears his throat and looks away.

Note to self: Haze Adams and close proximity means dysfunctional brain.

“Is that all you brought?” I say, eager to break the silence and tension between us, and point to the tiny black bag he left on the porch.

“Yes. I used to come here all the time. I’m sure I left some clothes in my old bedroom.”

“And how long ago was that?”