Page 14 of Faking the Rules

Declan is leaning against his car when I push through the dorm entrance, casual in dark jeans and a gray button-down that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. He straightens when he sees me, something flickering across his face that makes my pulse quicken.

"You look..." he trails off, his eyes moving over me with appreciation that doesn't feel performative. "Wow."

"Is it okay?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "Not too much? Not too little?"

"It's perfect." His voice has a rough edge that sends a shiver through me despite the mildness of the evening. "You're perfect."

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. This isn't the smooth-talking hockey star or even the strategic partner in our arrangement. This feels like something else—something genuine that makes the line between pretense and reality blur further.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," I say, trying to lighten the moment.

He smiles, opening the passenger door for me with a gallantry that still feels strange coming from him. "Ready for this?"

No, I think as I slide into the seat. I'm not ready for this dinner, for his family's scrutiny, for the growing complication of my own feelings. But what I say is:

"As I'll ever be."

The drive to his parents' home takes us away from campus and into the affluent suburb where old money Westford families have lived for generations. I try not to think about how if Declan’s family just lived somewhere else, on another coast for example, we wouldn’t have to do this. But of course things couldn’t be that easy. Of course they would have to live a fifteen-minute drive from campus.

Declan and I make small talk about classes and the upcoming weekend, carefully avoiding discussion of the increasingly blurred boundaries of our arrangement.

His phone buzzes as we turn onto a tree-lined street of imposing homes. He glances at it, then silences it with a frown.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Fine." His response is too quick, too dismissive.

But something in his expression suggests it's not fine at all. A flicker of tension crosses his face before he masks it with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Here we are," he says, turning into a circular driveway that leads to a sprawling colonial-style mansion. "Home sweet home."

The house is intimidating in its perfection—white columns, symmetrical windows, manicured gardens. Old money made architectural.

"You grew up here?" I ask, though the answer is obvious.

"Until boarding school at fourteen," he confirms, parking beside a sleek silver Mercedes. "Then summers and holidays."

"Of course you went to boarding school," I mutter, one more piece of the Declan Wolfe puzzle clicking into place.

He shoots me a look, something defensive crossing his features. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," I backtrack, realizing too late how judgmental I sounded. "Just... it fits."

"With the spoiled rich kid image you have of me?" The question has an edge, a rawness I wasn't expecting.

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" He turns off the engine. "You've had me pegged from day one, Gardner. The privileged jock with a trust fund and no depth."

The accusation stings because there's truth in it—or there used to be, before I started seeing glimpses of the real Declan beneath the carefully constructed facade.

"Maybe I did," I admit quietly. "But I was wrong."

The simple confession seems to catch him off guard. His expression softens, the defensive tension leaving his shoulders. "We should go in," he says, avoiding a direct response. "My mother hates tardiness."

As we approach the front door, his hand finds the small of my back—a gesture that's becoming familiar. But the familiarity doesn’t stop the lightning from sliding through my stomach, a heat settling between my legs.

The door opens before we can ring the bell, revealing Caroline Wolfe in an elegant navy dress, her smile warm and welcoming.

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