Page 7 of The Dixon Rule

“Just…don’t get your hopes up. You find out your mate is a pool boy and you create a whole narrative in your head and then bam, he shoots down your bubble and your dreams float away like a feather on the wind.”

“Those were a lot of weird metaphors just to say I don’t fuck the clients.” Will rolls his eyes and reiterates that point to me. “I don’t fuck the clients.”

“Why the hell not?” I’m picturing neglected MILFs in tiny bikinis sashaying over to bring Will glasses of lemonade, and then, oops, my bikini top fell off. Would you like to bang?

“Because I’d get fired, for one.” His tone is dry.

“Fair. But what’s life without the risk of getting fired?”

“Says the rich boy.”

“Isn’t your dad a congressman? I feel like you’re probably richer than I am. AKA the last person who needs to work as a pool boy all summer.”

“Nah. I don’t ever want to be beholden to my dad. I’d rather make my own way.”

I guess that’s admirable. With that said, I’m not about to complain about the fact that my folks are still paying my way. I’m twenty-one years old and blissfully unemployed. It’s the summer before senior year and I want to enjoy every second of it. My plan is to really focus on strength and conditioning ahead of this hockey season. Hit the gym every morning. Try to incorporate swimming into my cardio regimen. I also got a membership to a golf club near here, so I’ll be on the green at least a few times a week.

Let the Summer of Shane commence.

After the boys and I finish assembling the bed and clean up, Beck and Will ask if I want to grab dinner with them in town, but I beg off. I want to do some unpacking and organize my shit.

For this afternoon’s services, I’m repaying them in the form of beer and a party on Saturday night, which Beckett reminds me of as I walk them to the front hall.

“Don’t forget about my goodbye party,” he drawls.

“Yes, of course, the goodbye party you’re throwing for yourself.”

“And?”

“And that’s stupid. But I’m looking forward to christening the pool, so I guess a my-dumbass-friend-is-going-on-vacation gathering is as good a reason as any.”

He chuckles. “What did your new neighbor say about the party?”

“Dixon? Oh, she’s excited. Can’t wait for it.”

“Tread carefully,” Will warns. “Diana can be vicious. And she’s not above playing dirty.”

“Is that supposed to deter me?” I ask with a grin. “The dirtier the better.”

After my buddies leave, I wander toward the kitchen island to examine all the documents my mom left on the counter. My parents were here yesterday making some final preparations ahead of my move-in date. Meaning that Mom stocked the fridge and made sure all the important paperwork was in one place, while Dad squared up with his contractor.

I settle on a tall, black-leather stool and sigh as I sift through the large stack of paper. The information is about as lame as I expect it to be.

I flip pages until one catches my eye. It’s an illustrated map of the Meadow Hill property, and I lean forward on my forearms to study it. Why is every building named after trees? Mine is Red Birch. Next door is Silver Pine. White Ash, Weeping Willow, Sugar Maple. The main building is called the Sycamore, which is where our mailboxes are located. It also offers a round-the-clock security guard at the front desk. That’s good.

I set the map aside and try to focus on the next page, but it’s tedious reading. Like Diana said, the homeowners’ association meets every two weeks, and I’m invited to join. Twice a month, though? What kind of HOA needs to meet that often? And on a Sunday? Yeah, I won’t be caught dead at some stuffy board meeting where soccer moms and their sex-starved husbands can argue about pool regulations and when to start your lawn mowers. I’ll never be that mundane.

The noise ordinances make zero sense. It says no noise after nine p.m. on weekdays, except for Fridays, when it’s eleven p.m. No noise after midnight on weekends, except on Sunday, when you’re only allowed to be noisy until ten p.m. So basically, Friday doesn’t count as the weekend, neither does Sunday, and the only night you can have fun is Saturday. Okay then.

I get about halfway through the stack before I give up. I’ll finish the rest later. My brain isn’t equipped for this much boredom.

I head to my new bedroom. My approach to packing up my room in the old townhouse was very utilitarian. Much to my mother’s dismay, I shoved most of my clothes and linens into garbage bags. Not pretty, but efficient. I rummage through the linens bag and find a new set of sheets and pillowcases. Another garbage bag houses a duvet and cover. After I make the bed, I sit at the foot of it, wriggle my phone out of my pocket, and dial my mom’s number.

“Hello!” she answers happily. “Are you all done?”

“Yup, the guys just left. Couch, TV, and bed are all set up.”

“Good. What about the condo in general? Do you like it? Are you happy with the paint colors we chose for the kitchen? And the backsplash? I thought the white tile was more tasteful.”

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