My Rules (Kingston Lane Book 2)
My Rules: Chapter 2

“What do you mean?” Blake frowns.

“Well, you said last night that Michael showed up on your douchedar.”

“Yes.” He continues to butter his toast.

“So . . . how did you know he was a douchebag?”

He takes a bite of his toast and smirks. “Don’t tell me the idiot fucked up already?”

I let out a deflated breath. “He asked me for nudes and then sent me a recycled cock shot.”

He smirks.

“This is not the least bit funny, Blake.”

“Little bit.” He leans his behind on the kitchen counter and crosses his legs at the ankle. It’s only then that I notice he’s in boxer shorts, and his broad, tanned chest is on display. Damn it, even Blake is looking good lately. I snap my eyes away.

I really need to get laid. Maybe I should have sent the nudes.

“So?” I ask hopefully.

“So what?” He keeps casually chewing his toast.

“Can you explain the whole douche-radar thing. Like . . . how did you know? What were the signs?”

“Bec . . .” He stares at me for a bit, as if thinking. “I just don’t think you’re ready yet.”

“I am. I know I am.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I get turned on by the wind changing.”

“Really?” He smirks as his eyes hold mine.

“Yes, really.”

“I know someone who could help you out with that.”

“Will you be serious for just one minute?”

“Only too happy to donate my penis for your wind changes.” He gives me a playful wink.

“Blake.” I widen my eyes. “Are you listening to me at all?”

“Not if I can help it.” He grabs my hand and pulls me off the stool. “We’ll talk about it through the week.”

“I want to talk about it now.”

“Not a good time, Bec.”

“Why not?”

“Blake,” a female voice calls from upstairs. “Are you coming back up?”

Oh my god.

“Who’s that?” I mouth, horrified.

He holds his two hands up, as if he’s just as surprised as I am. “I have no idea,” he mouths back. “Maybe the tooth fairy.”

I roll my eyes. “Can you ever be serious for one minute?”

“No.” He grabs me by my two shoulders and turns me toward the front door. “Go home and go for a run or something.”

“I don’t want to go for a run.” I sigh as I walk out onto his porch.

“Then take a nap.”

“It’s first thing in the morning.” I throw my hands up. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Forget about men.”

“Why?”

“Because we are no fucking good, that’s why.”

My shoulders slump in disappointment. Even he openly admits it.

“Look.” He sighs as he pulls me into a hug. “I’ll come over later.”

I stand rigid in his arms.

“Okay?” he mumbles into my hair.

“Fine . . .”

“Are you cooking me dinner?” he asks.

“Ugh . . . Why don’t you get the tooth fairy to cook you dinner?”

“No.” He scrunches up his nose as he steps back from me. “She can’t cook for shit.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Lasagna?”

I really do want to replace out about this douche radar.

“Ugh . . . fine.”

“Got to go.” He closes the door in my face, and I stare at it for a beat.

The tooth fairy can’t cook, which can only mean one thing . . .

She gives good head.

12:30 p.m.

I refold the napkin in my lap and look around the restaurant as I wait.

Where is he?

Typical of John, the prick, to make a grand entrance.

I glance at my watch and roll my fingers on the table as my impatience grows.

Fifteen minutes late.

If I didn’t know him, I would assume he isn’t coming, but unfortunately I do, and I know that this is his way of trying to assert dominance. He’ll swan in and pretend he was tied up at work when really, he is just too self-centered to worry about making anyone wait for him.

“There you are.” He smiles calmly before bending to kiss my cheek in greeting.

I turn my head. “Don’t kiss me, and you’re late.”

“Apologies.” He sits down in the chair opposite me. His eyes hold mine. “You look good, Rebecca.”

Don’t even . . .

“Why haven’t you replied to my lawyer?” I ask.

He casually pours himself a glass of water from the jug. “Because my relationship isn’t with your lawyer.”

“It is now.”

“No.” He takes a sip. “It isn’t.” He opens the menu and peruses the choices. “What are you having?”

“I’m not eating.”

“Aren’t we meeting for lunch?”

“No. We’re meeting because you won’t answer my lawyer’s calls.”

“The answer is no,” he snaps.

“You cannot stop me from divorcing you,” I whisper angrily.

“We’re not getting divorced; we are going to get through this.” He casually sips his water. “All couples go through a rough patch. When we come out the other side of this, we are going to be more in love with each other than ever.”

“You were sleeping with another woman for eighteen months. This is a little more than a rough patch, John.”

“I was having a midlife crisis,” he whispers. “I made a mistake.”

“That I will never get over. I want a divorce.”

“No.”

“We’ve been separated for over twelve months, and we are not coming back from this. Ever.”

His eyes hold mine, and he circles his pointer finger over the tablecloth. “Why do you want a divorce so badly?”

“I just do.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like living in a house that you pay for. I want this finalized so I can pay my own way and look after myself. While I live in a house that you pay for, I’m in limbo.”

“Oh please,” he scoffs. “What the hell can you afford?”

I open my mouth to say something nasty but close it again before I do.

Stay civil until he agrees to my terms.

“I want the house in the settlement, and you can keep everything else.”

His eyes hold mine. “No. You can have the ski lodge in Aspen.”

“I don’t want the ski lodge. I don’t even ski.”

“You can have the Manhattan apartment.”

“No, you like the city; you keep it. I want to stay on Kingston Lane.”

“How are you going to maintain a house of that size?”

“I think I’m capable of mowing lawns.”

“We still have a mortgage on it. You can’t afford to pay that.”

“I’ll replace a way.”

“Why would you want to stay there?”

“Because my friends are there?”

His jaw ticks in fury. “Blake Grayson isn’t your friend, Rebecca; he wants to fuck you.”

“Oh please.” I roll my eyes. “Blake is my friend.”

“Blake was my friend, and he just chose to be a traitor and go to your side.” He fakes a smile. “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know why.”

“Shut up,” I whisper angrily. “Leave Blake out of this. Not everyone is a sex maniac. I want the house in the settlement, and I want a divorce. And you’re going to give it to me.”

“No.”

“This isn’t up to you.”

“Actually . . .” He narrows his eyes. “I think I’ll move back into my house.”

Panic sets in.

“No. You won’t.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“I wonder what your mom and dad would say if they found out what you’ve done,” I fume. This is below the belt, but damn it, he cannot, under any circumstance, move back in with me.

“Don’t threaten me, Rebecca.”

“Here’s the deal . . . I want the house and a divorce, or . . . I’m going to your dad, and we both know that little family trust of Grandma’s will be ripped out from under you if they learn what kind of sleazebag their only grandson really is.”

“We’re going to get through this.” He sits forward and takes my hand in his. “I love you. You’re my wife; we are meant to be together forever.”

I snatch my hand out of his. “Don’t touch me.”

“I made a mistake; I’m human. So kill me. Do you honestly think that ninety-nine percent of the male population hasn’t made a simple mistake before?”

“You put your dick inside another woman’s ass,” I spit angrily.

The people at the tables around us glance over, and I cringe. That came out a lot louder than it was meant to.

“Keep your voice down,” he whispers angrily. “Fine . . . you can have the house.” He shrugs as he thinks out loud. “I’ll sign it over, but I won’t agree to a divorce. I love you, and I won’t give up on us.”

“You’ll sign it over?” I frown, surprised.

“On the condition that we don’t divorce.”

“What?” I screw up my face. “That’s ridiculous.”

He shrugs.

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“No, I want a set time.” I think of a counteroffer. “If we haven’t gotten back together in two years, then we get a divorce.”

“Eight years.”

“No way,” I scoff. “Three years.”

“Six.”

“Four.”

“Five.” He sits back, annoyed. “Final offer: I’ll sign the house over to you, but we don’t divorce for at least five years.”

I stare at him as the idea rolls around in my head.

I really want the house.

“Take it or leave it, Rebecca.”

Five years . . . is a long time.

Not that it matters, I guess. I have no intention of ever marrying again.

“Why do you want such a long time?” I ask him.

“Because I can’t lose you, Rebecca, and I need you to forgive me. We need time to heal. I can’t imagine a life without you in it.”

“But you could very easily imagine yourself in a bed without me in it . . . couldn’t you?”

“I made a mistake,” he says softly. “How long are you going to throw that in my face?”

“Forever.”

“Five years.”

“I need to get some advice from my lawyer.”

“I’ll send you a schedule of the repayments and monthly costs. I’m telling you that you can’t afford it. You don’t need to do it alone; you have me.”

I never had you.

“I’ll be the judge of what I can afford.” Annoyed, I stand to cut our meeting short. “Send me the details, and I’ll let you know.”

“I love you.” He smiles hopefully up at me.

My heart sinks. I hate that he still says it to me every time we speak. I hate that the man I thought was my soulmate is nothing more than a huge disappointment.

I hate that I’m single and lonely, and damn it, I . . . I hate that he ruined the perfect life I had.

“Goodbye, John.” I walk out of the restaurant and push out through the heavy glass doors into the cool air.

I put my sunglasses on and look up the street toward my car. Well, that was a disaster . . .

Five years . . . fuck.

I stare at the computer screen and screw up my face. “What?”

John’s financial estimate email has come through, and I’m spending the afternoon going through the expenses.

“Surely this can’t be right?”

I bring up the calculator on my phone and begin to add up the yearly figures.

Loan repayment.

Maintenance.

Property tax.

Utilities.

Insurance.

I add them all together and then divide them by twelve. “This should be the monthly amount of costs.” I hit enter on the calculator.

$3,312.00

My eyes widen in horror. “Three thousand three hundred and twelve dollars?” I gasp. “Per month?”

Shit. I quickly divide that by four.

$828.00

“What the hell . . . a week?”

I slump back into my chair. “That’s going to be all my income, and I didn’t even pay for food or gas and car costs yet.”

Damn it.

I see John’s smug face when he told me that I wouldn’t be able to afford to keep the house.

He was right . . .

That selfish bastard infuriates me. He thinks that I’m going to go back to him because I have no other choice.

I slam my computer shut and stare at the wall.

What the hell do I do now?

Blake

I pull my front door closed and walk across the lawn to Rebecca’s. It’s just 7:00 p.m. I have a bottle of wine under my arm, and I’ve been looking forward to this lasagna all day.

Nobody can cook like Rebecca can. Best damn chef in the United States, if you ask me.

I walk up the stairs onto her porch.

Knock, knock.

I wait . . .

What’s happening in there? I peer through the window; she’s probably slaving away in the kitchen for me. I smile and knock again.

Knock, knock.

This is the perfect way to end my weekend: dinner with my favorite girl.

The door opens in a rush, and my eyes drop down to Rebecca’s feet and rise back up to her face. She’s wearing odd flannelette pajamas: canary yellow pants with huge red lips all over them and a pink top. Her hair is in a messy bun on the top of her head, and her face is covered in a green face mask. “I love it when you dress up for me,” I mutter.

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm tonight,” she snaps impatiently. “What is it, Blake?”

“Lasagna, I’m hoping.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “That’s right, I invited you for dinner, didn’t I?”

“You forgot?” My mouth falls open in horror. I’ve been looking forward to this all day, and she just forgets.

“Sorry.” She sighs as she steps to the side to let me in. “I’ve had a . . . day. Come in.”

I walk in through the foyer and into the living room to see the television is paused. There’s a packet of chocolate cookies and the empty wrappers of two blocks of chocolate on the coffee table in front of the couch. My eyes rise to her and notice that she has a defeated demeanor. I know this look anywhere.

She saw John today.

“So . . .” I shrug. “I’m guessing there’s no lasagna.”

She shakes her head and flops onto the couch. “Sorry. I just . . .”

I wait for her reply.

“I can’t seem to do anything right today.” She shrugs sadly.

“Well, that’s not true.” I sit down next to her and pull her into a hug. “You are totally nailing the cute housewife look.” I feel her smile against my shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make us dinner.”

“You will?”

“Not really.” I stand. “We’re getting takeout.” I take my phone out of my pocket. “What do you feel like?”

“Carbohydrates,” she says as she holds the remote up to the television and presses play.

“Romanes Italian?” I ask.

“I guess.”

“Well, I can’t order the lasagna because it will only highlight how bad it is in comparison to yours.” I curl my lip. “You owe me lasagna, woman.”

“Okay.” She forces a smile. “I’ll have garlic bread. A large size. Actually, make it a family serving of pasta carbonara with extra cream and fresh Parmesan, and then I’ll have a Nutella pizza for dessert with a double serving of strawberries on the side. And I’ll have a Coca-Cola, in a glass bottle if possible.”

Eww . . .

“Sounds”—my eyebrows flick up in surprise—“healthy.”

“Don’t even . . . ,” she growls.

I hold my two hands up in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare.” I dial the number of the restaurant.

“Hello, Romanes.”

“Can I order some takeout, please?” I ask.

“What will it be?” the bored receptionist asks.

“Family serving of pasta carbonara with extra cream and fresh Parmesan, spaghetti marinara with extra chili, and a Nutella pizza with extra strawberries on the side.”

“Is that it?”

“A Coke.” My eyes float over to Rebecca as she watches me. “In a glass bottle.”

I tell them the address and hang up; my eyes rise to the television. “What are you watching?”

“The Notebook.”

“Why are you watching sad love stories? Isn’t it time you start watching Breaking Bad or something?”

“What’s Breaking Bad about?” she asks, distracted.

“Well, there’s this science teacher who’s diagnosed with terminal cancer, so he thinks fuck it and begins to make methamphetamines in a lab.”

“That sounds terrible.” She screws up her face. “Why would I want to watch a show about someone dying and making drugs?”

“It’s badass and a lot better than watching fuckwits in love.”

She smirks as her eyes hold mine.

Is she going to tell me what happened today?

She stays silent.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” I sit down beside her and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear.

Her eyes hold mine.

“You’re going to go take a shower and wash that green shit off your face.” I tap her on her nose. “And I’m going to pull out the sofa bed from the couch and make you a pillow fort with the snuggliest blanket of all time.”

She smiles softly.

“We’ll eat dinner, and then we’re going to have a Breaking Bad marathon,” I continue.

“Thank you, Blake.” Her eyes well with tears as she stares at me. “I’ve just had a bad day, you know?”

“I know.” I smile. “It’s okay, baby.” I pull her into a hug. “I’ve got you.”

She stays in my arms for a beat longer than usual, and damn it, I fucking hate that guy for how hard he broke her.

If I ever see him on a dark street, he may not survive.

“You want to talk about it?” I mumble into her hair.

“Not really.”

Her inability to talk to me stings more than it should, and I pull out of her arms and stand. “Shower.”

Rebecca’s regulated breathing is quite possibly the most comforting sound in the world. We are on the trundle bed in her living room, wrapped up in our snuggly blanket. Lying flat on her back and wearing her flannelette pajamas, she is fast asleep. I lie on my side facing her. It’s late, and I have to work tomorrow. I know I should tiptoe out of here and quietly leave, lock up her house and let her sleep in peace.

But how can I . . . when watching her sleep is like a dream come true?

If only . . .