The Only Rule: The Casual Rule 3
Page 1
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Bonus Chapter
About The Author
The Only Rule
(The Casual Rule 3)
Copyright 2017 © AC Netzel
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 in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to Tara, Genevieve, and Vicki for taking time out of your busy lives to read my work and encourage me to hit the publish button once again.
To my amazing fans for your incredible support and patience with this book… Thank you for hanging in there with me. I’m so grateful to you.
To the bloggers who helped get word out about my books… Thank you for taking a chance on a newbie. I’m sincerely touched by how wonderful this community is. And eternally thankful.
Thank you to my big Italian family- for giving me insight to what a close Italian family should be. We’re family and friends.
To Olivia and Nick who won’t read my books… I love you both.
And the biggest thank you to John- my soulmate and truly the best man I know.
Prologue
“Ah, excuse me. Do you have the time?”
He grabs his cell phone and takes a quick peek at it, then looks up at me. My knees practically buckle. From far away he was gorgeous, up close he’s fucking immortal. He has the darkest brown eyes, the kind you want to get lost in. Forever. The kind of eyes you want peeking up at you from in between your legs.
Whoa, where the hell did that come from? Allie is right. Mr. Khaki Shorts screams sex.
He has a strong jawline… I’d love to run my teeth across it. His face has just enough stubble to make him sexy, but not so much that he looks like a slob. Damn.
“It’s two-twenty,” he says with a smile. Of course, his teeth are perfect, too.
“Oh, thank you.” I look down to the ground, blushing. Blushing? Really Julia?
“Something wrong with your watch?”
“Hmm?”
“The watch on your wrist,” he answers as he points at my hand. I’m guessing I’m not the only girl looking to get Mr. Khaki Short’s time. Well, I feel like an ass.
“Dead battery,” I answer flatly.
“Do you make it a habit of wearing watches that don’t work?” He arches his brow with the hint of a sly smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He knows I’m lying and he’s teasing me.
Smug bastard.
“No, just today,” I snap. This guy is mocking me and enjoying it.
“I’m happy to be your timekeeper… Miss?”
“I’ll be going now. Thanks for the time.”
“Anytime, Miss I’ll be Going Now.” He smiles, clearly amused at my embarrassment.
I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled; I turn around with my head held high and storm back over to Allie.
I reach my towel; quickly take off my sundress and plop back down, sulking.
“Well?” Allie asks, wide-eyed, ready for the lowdown.
“He’s an ass, just like every other guy I’ve come in contact with. I’m taking a nap.”
Chapter 1
I had that dream again.
The one where you show up for an important presentation in front of a huge crowd of work colleagues—naked and unprepared. But in my dream, I’m naked except for a long white tulle veil on my head and matching satin shoes.
I’m in hell.
Wedding planning hell.
It’s Saturday afternoon. I’m sitting on Ben’s bed, exasperated while I review the millionth guest list revision for our wedding. Papers are spread out all over the place. I’m swimming in messy piles of checklists, torn-out magazine articles, and empty Twinkie wrappers.
Organization isn’t my strong suit.
Wedding planners on television make it look effortless. I thought the over-the-top drama was carefully choreographed bullshit for ratings. I’m learning that wedding planning, my plans in particular, fall under Murphy’s Law.
Because everything that can go wrong has.
If there’s a wedding favor I like—it’s out of stock for six months. Bridesmaids dresses I’m interested in seeing are no longer manufactured. Apparently, only ugly hoop-bottom taffeta dresses get an unlimited shelf-life. All I’d need is a crooked shepherd’s staff and bonnet, and I’d have a line of Bo Peeps walking down the aisle.
I’m beyond stressed.
Ben insisted what’s left of the half-eaten box of Twinkies on the nightstand next to me isn’t a substantial meal. Calories are calories. Who cares where they come from? He disagreed.
Admittedly, I practically inhaled the first half for breakfast. It’s probably already infused itself directly to my thighs. There’s not enough Spanx in New York that can squeeze me in my wedding dress if I continue with this junk food diet.
He left fifteen minutes ago to pick up lunch at some new Thai restaurant in the neighborhood. I know the real reason he went was more about him looking for an escape from my crazy than concern for my nutritional needs.
The sudden buzz of my cell phone startles me. I drop my papers, grab it off the nightstand, and read the waiting text.
*I will love you until my dying breath and the last beat of my heart.*
I roll my eyes. I know there’s another text coming. There always is.
*Then I will haunt you and watch you shower.*
Shaking my head, I laugh. Ever since I insisted we write our vows, Ben’s been texting me intentionally bad ones. I’m not complaining. It gives me a little reprieve from the pressures of wedding planning and all the family politics that come with it.
Every day without fail, I get a new demand. It’s disguised as a polite request, from my mother or future mother-in-law, telling me to add this person or that person. Ben and I don’t know half these people. It’s turning our wedding into a circus.
I text him back.
*I promise I will never call you Leonard in the throes of passion.*
I receive an immediate reply.
*I promise the same.*
I laugh again… I should have seen that coming. I quickly text him back.
*I will always love you, despite your dull personality and unfortunate looks.*
*I’ll always find you attractive… even when gravity takes over, and your breasts sag down to your waist.*
That was a pretty good return if I don’t say so myself. Now we’re even. My cell buzzes again. These stupid texts are addicting.
*I promise you’ll always orgasm.*
I’m sure Father Donovan would enjoy hearing that one on the altar… and right after he’ll douse us with holy water.
*I promise to fake it, so you never question your sexual prowess.*
*I promise you’ll never fake it.*
*I like that promise.*
*That’s one I plan to keep. I’ll be home in five minutes. Be ready.*
~o0o~
An hour, one spectacular orgasm, and a quick shower later, Ben’s in the kitchen plating our lunch. I sit cross-legged on the couch in the living room with my laptop resting on a throw pillow on my legs. Once again, I’m reviewing list after list of the gazillion things I need to do before our wedding day.
Every time I think I’m caught up, something else pops up. I know I shouldn’t think this way about what’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life. But there are times I can’t wait for this wedding business to be over so I can stop feeling overwhelmed.
I reach over and grab my water bottle from the coffee table in front of me. Naturally, it sits on top of a cork coaster. Ben and his freaking coasters. I don’t understand how a man who is so dirty in the bedroom can be so damn clean everywhere else.
He walks into the living room holding a plate in each hand piled high with Pad Thai. After placing the dishes down on the coffee table, he grabs the TV remote. I set my laptop on the couch cushion next to me and join him on the floor.
“Thanks for picking up lunch.” I lift the chopsticks off my plate.
“Since our meal was delayed to satisfy one of your two insatiable appetites, it’s not very hot.”
“Are you claiming I have an insatiable appetite for sex and food?” I ask.
“Are you claiming you don’t?” He raises a brow.
“I’ll admit I have a healthy appetite for food. But the sex… that’s merely a by-product of my hunger for you.”
He tilts his head, stares at me thoughtfully, his lips curling up into a smile. “I’ll accept that answer.”
“I figured you would,” I say sarcastically. “While we’re on the subject of sex… I’ve been bouncing around an idea. I want to pass it by you.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“What do you think about abstaining until after we’re married?”
His chopsticks stop abruptly midway to his mouth.
“You’re asking me this an hour after we had sex?” he asks, amused, placing his chopsticks down on his plate.
“I read an article in Weddings Galore. It claims if we wait, the build-up will make the wedding night special.”
“Do you think abstaining will revirginize you?” He’s sporting a sarcastic grin plastered across his perfectly smug face.
The bastard.
I throw a chopstick at him. “Don’t be a smart ass.”
He laughs, catching it with one hand. “I fail to see the benefit in cutting off something we both enjoy doing. Something we do pretty fucking well.”
“Think about how romantic it would be… like the first time all over again.”
“Every time with you is like the first time.”
I roll my eyes. He’s trying—and failing—to hide another smirk.
“Stop trying to charm the clothes off me with your flattery.”
Admittedly, he does look good. He hasn’t shaved and has that dark, delicious stubble I’m dying to touch.
“No sex?” he asks.
I shrug. “What do you think?”
He pauses for a few seconds, squints an eye then shakes his head. “You wouldn’t last.”
“Do you really think you’re that irresistible?”
“I know I am,” he answers. “To you, anyway.”
Yeah, to me and most of womankind.
I smack his arm. “Be serious.”
“I am serious. You wouldn’t last.”
“Yes I would,” I insist.
“Yesterday I was in the shower… alone. Within two minutes, you joined me.”
“I wanted to conserve water.”
“You’re a terrible liar. You wanted to fuck.”
“You didn’t complain,” I point out.
“I’m not complaining now. I’m pro-fucking.”
I laugh out loud. “Pro-fucking?”
“HmmMmm,” he agrees with a quick nod.
“That sweet talk of yours is dripping in romance, Romeo.”
“I’m merely stating a fact. You wouldn’t last.”
I stare at him looking all Ben-luscious, in a pair of gray sweats with that beautiful bulge— which I happen to have very recent dirty memories of—and a tight black T-shirt that shows off his guns. I’m an arm porn addict, and goddamn this man has beautiful biceps.
I know it’s only been an hour, but I wouldn’t mind another go at him.
“I might have lasted a day or two,” I concede.
He leans over and kisses my shoulder. “I’m going to burn those magazines if you continue reading articles with bad advice.”
“All this wedding planning is melting my brain.”
“Vegas is still on the table. We can catch a red-eye tonight and drive straight to a chapel.”
“The answer is still no. Could you imagine how devastated my mother would be if she missed our wedding? It would break her heart.”
“And yours,” he says, kissing my shoulder again. “I know, I’m only teasing. We’ll have the big Italian wedding and anything else you want.”
“Honestly, I’d prefer a small, intimate wedding. Just immediate family.”
“Then why is our guest list two hundred people long?”
“Two hundred and ten. Your mother called with four more people we had to invite. I’m sure half ‘The Club’ will be there. Then my mother pulled out her Spite-vite list and added another six.”
“Spite-vite?”
“Spite Invites. People you ask to come out of spite. Guests she knows don’t want to attend, but they owe her. My mother keeps a mental list of every wedding and bridal shower she’s ever attended. If she gave a gift, she expects one back.”
“She’s nuts.”
“I know. Then I had to invite my Uncle Lillian’s step daughter.”
His brow crinkles. “Uncle Lillian?”
“It’s really my Aunt Lillian. She has a facial hair issue. ‘Uncle Lillian’ is my brother’s nickname for her.”
He laughs. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Stuart emailed another huge file of flower arrangement ideas. He’s driving me crazy. I’d have to be a bodybuilder to lift the bouquets he’s suggesting. I told him I wanted simple daisies because it’s our flower. He doesn’t listen. He wants exotic, grand, and colorful. I know he’s excited for us, but our wedding is going to look like the fucking Rose Bowl parade.
“The caterer wants us to go over menus and make an appointment for tastings. I still haven’t called to arrange the limos. I want a DJ… Mommy Dearest insists we want a band, like I’m not aware of what I want.”
Exasperated, I scrub my hands over my face and continue.
“She insists that our wedding cake have fondant on it, because ‘it looks polished and classy’. I don’t want fondant. It tastes like… fondant. I want icing. Messy, sugary, sloppy buttercream frosting. Just give me the damn frosting I want. We still need to get wedding favors, and pick linen colors for the table in that ridiculous palace of a catering hall.”
I’m on a roll, my words spilling out so quickly, I wonder if he can comprehend them. But I need to vent, so I go on…
“Oh, and in addition to the wedding crap, the contractor for our Central Park apartment called me. He had questions about the renovations we’re doing before we move in. He said he tried to get a hold of you, but you didn’t pick up t
he call. He wanted to know if we preferred PVC or Copper water pipes. How the fuck should I know? Do I look like a goddamn plumber? I’m reading four books at once at work. Vivian is at that conference in Los Angeles for another week, so I’m dealing with all her nutcase authors as well as mine.
“And if I hear one more person say ‘Let me see the ring’, I’m going to throat punch them.”
For as hard as I try to stop them, my emotions get the better of me, and tears roll down my cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “I’ll call the contractor.”
“Okay.” I cuddle in and nod into his neck.
“This wedding is supposed to be our day. If it’s not what you want, then change it.”
“It’s not that simple. I’m getting pulled in twenty different directions trying to make everyone happy.”
“By making yourself miserable? I’ll help with whatever you need, but I don’t understand why we’re having this huge wedding, when it’s not what either of us wants.”
“If it’s not what you want, why have you gone along with all of it?”
“Because I want you happy. I thought all this,” he waves his hand toward my laptop, “was making you happy.”
“I don’t know what I want anymore.” I look up at him, my waterworks slowing down to a trickle, and let out a shaky breath. “And to top it all off, I’m marrying a man who has never asked me out on a date.” I sniff, grabbing a napkin off the coffee table and wiping my runny nose.
“I’m sure I’ve asked you out on a date.”
I shake my head, wiping the last of the tears away.
“Never?” he asks in disbelief.
“Nope. Never. I was easy and let you slide straight into home base.”
“Julia, you were never easy. I asked you out to Emilio’s Café that time I bumped into you at the Sunshine Deli.”
“That wasn’t a date.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. It was a strictly business dinner.”
He exhales a short breath, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Not a date, huh?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly, clutching the napkin balled in my palm tight.
He grabs a small pad and pen off the coffee table and slides them in front of me.