Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone, Mariah Dietz [no david read aloud .TXT] 📗

Writing the Rules

The Dating Playbook: Book 6

Mariah Dietz

Contents

Prologue

1. Paxton

2. Poppy

3. Paxton

4. Poppy

5. Paxton

6. Poppy

7. Paxton

8. Poppy

9. Paxton

10. Poppy

11. Paxton

12. Poppy

13. Paxton

14. Poppy

15. Paxton

16. Poppy

17. Poppy

18. Paxton

19. Poppy

20. Paxton

21. Poppy

22. Poppy

23. Paxton

24. Poppy

25. Paxton

26. Poppy

27. Poppy

28. Paxton

29. Poppy

30. Paxton

31. Poppy

32. Paxton

33. Poppy

34. Paxton

Epilogue

Read More of The Dating Playbook

Bending the Rules

Poppy’s Chocolate, Marshmallow Cream Filled Cupcakes

Stay Connected

Also by Mariah Dietz

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright © 2021 by Mariah Dietz

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Edited by Arielle Brubaker

Proofread by Michele Ficht

Cover Design by Hang Le with By Hang Le

Cover Photographer: Arron Dunworth

Model: Adi Gillespie

Created with Vellum

Learn More About Mariah

Website: www.mariahdietz.com

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Prologue

Poppy

I’ve been recording my life since I was seven. A heavy stream of consciousness, questions, thoughts, details that I’ve kept and recorded in the journals’ pages, knowing that memories don’t last forever and are often missing details. I’ve long believed my life to be simple and I to be boring. Painfully average and predictable. Now, I question why I associated so many negative thoughts toward things I now find reprieve in.

It may not be a popular opinion, but there’s something incredibly fulfilling and shockingly wonderful found in familiarity, and these pages are a testament to that fact.

I run my fingers along the spines, stopping on my very first journal. I pull it out and cradle it with the gentleness of an infant, flipping to the first page—the beginning of my written life that explains the time Mom had told me how we rarely remember moments, only the way we feel in them. She told me to close my eyes and try to picture her, and I was shocked at how quickly her dark brown hair and her eyes that are the same shade as the acorns I used to gather and collect every fall, slipped from my mind. I didn’t even remember the familiar path of freckles across the bridge of her nose or her smile for very long. They all faded into a silhouette that I simply knew was her. That day, I began keeping track of my days, my memories, my thoughts—filling the pages of journals that reside in chronological order in my closet because though I don’t know what my life will bring, I want to remember the tiny details—ones we all take for granted like a really good shower with the perfect water temperature, the feeling of receiving flowers from a boy you like, and that smell after it rains when everything is waking up. I wanted to record all of my firsts and all of my lasts. Which is why I’m in my closet now, flipping through pages and reading entries from years past, trying to decipher if arbitrary rules and ideas had blinded me and kept me away from him and the knowledge that I’ve loved him all this time like it sometimes feels, or if lust has stolen my memories and exchanged them for feelings. I need to get past the faded silhouette in my head and find the truth.

1

Paxton

“Where have you been?” my little sister, Raegan, asks, eyes on me and arms crossed over her chest like she’s preparing for a fight as I get out of my car.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I tell her, my tone relaying my state of physical exhaustion and lack of enthusiasm for this conversation.

“No one has seen or heard from you since Saturday night.”

“It’s only Sunday. Relax.”

“Pax…” She shakes her head. “I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” I respond, but before I can list the reasons she doesn’t have to be concerned, my teammates Arlo Kostas and Lincoln Beckett step out from our shared house. Lincoln stops beside Raegan, reminding me of the only thing I don’t like about my best friend—he’s dating my sister. It’s a selfish reason, I know, but when you go from being each other’s wingmen and partying together to having your sister spend the night—in his room—things get a little awkward.

“Look who the cat dragged home,” Arlo says with a laugh. “I thought I heard you.” He turns his head toward the opened front door. “He’s here!” he yells.

I release a heavy sigh. “Don’t tell me you guys are hosting another intervention.” I’m so damn tired of having to account for my whereabouts and actions.

Ian Forrest, the captain of our defense, steps outside, ready to join the crowd and give me his two cents. Behind him, I spot Poppy Anderson stopped in the doorway. I’ve known her since she was five, when she and Raegan became instant friends and began doing everything in life together. She’s easy to get along with, and unlike most of Rae’s friends, she has never made any attempt to flirt with me—not a lingering touch or innuendo or even a stray glance.

“Are we having a party?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

“What the fuck, man?” Lincoln asks.

I roll my shoulders and release another heavy sigh. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“That’s great because none of us want to babysit you,” Rae says. “But we’re worried about you.”

“We talked about this,” Ian says. “I thought we were on the same page?”

“We are. I went out and had a good time, and there were no pictures, and I didn’t drink and drive. I had two beers,” Or maybe five. “And spent the night on someone’s couch.”

“We have two rules for the team this year,” Ian says. “No drinking and an eleven o’clock curfew. You