Forgotten Rules: A Brother's Best Friend Romance

2020·0.84 MB·english

by  Eliah Greenwood [Greenwood

Copyright © 2020 by Eliah Greenwood
www.eliahgreenwood.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or
real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are
products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or
places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or
other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the
publisher.
Warning: This book is not a dating guide and contains graphic scenes and foul
language. Read at your own risk.
Photographer: Alexis Brooke Clark (@so.picture.this)
Models: Cassidy Bryn Johnson (@casbryn) and Joshua Johnson
(@the.josh.johnson)
ISBN: 978-1-9994390-8-8
Editing by One Love Editing
First printing edition 2020
Reality Survivor Publishing (Eliah Greenwood)
CONTENTS
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Connect with Eliah
Also by Eliah Greenwood
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To whoever is afraid to try that new thing and fall…
What if you fly?
Will
O
xygen. A necessity we take for granted.
Humans can be ungrateful sometimes, so focused on one
wrong, we forget the million rights. I used to think I was the
exception. Grew up cursing the lucky bastards who don’t
appreciate what they have.
Because the little things aren’t little.
And their oceans of problems?
They’re puddles.
But as I lie on the ground, lungs full of smoke, head
spinning out of control, I know I’m one of them. The
ungrateful bastards.
Turns out I never realized how much I liked breathing.
And I’d kill for a breath of fresh air right now.
Get up, Will. Get the hell up!
I can’t move, slipping away, choking on her name. I’m
sorry. I’m so sorry.
I wonder what they’ll say when they find my body.
Probably “What kind of moron runs into a raging fire?” And if
I make it out, I should tell them:
The kind that lit the fire in the first place…
Kassidy
I
once read that airports have seen more sincere kisses than
wedding halls. I don’t know when—much less where—but
it stuck with me, and from that day forward, I always
wondered about the strangers saying goodbye to their loved
ones.
My gaze drifts to the woman battling tears as she pecks her
partner on the mouth. The man pulls back, gasps at his watch,
and rushes off. Dabbing her eyes with her sleeve, she watches
him dissolve into the crowd.
Maybe her husband’s just been deployed. Maybe he’s
leaving for a business trip, but she knows his “business” is
blonde, twenty-four, and a yoga instructor. Or… maybe she
just realized she missed the finale of The Bachelor.
Yeah, I like that option better.
So many stories that will never be told.
So many words that will never be written.
I’m sure, in a way, that’s a good thing. Real stories can be
a little too real for readers sometimes. No happy endings, no
fairy tales, no promises of everlasting love. And life’s hard
enough as it is, right? We don’t want your depressing reality.
Give us our happily ever after and babies.
But what if… the words we’ll never get to read are the
words we need the most?
In an attempt to glimpse above the never-ending stream of
people, I hop from one foot to the other. I still don’t see
anything—well, except for the bald spot on the man in front of
me. My brother, Kendrick, mocks my fiddling, eyes glued to
his phone.
Today is the day.
The day Winter, my cousin from Canada—yeah, the irony
isn’t lost on me either—is moving in with us. Aunt Lauren
shipped her over to my mom while she’s away on a work trip
with Uncle Harry.
Winter will be staying with us until graduation in a few
months. To her greatest misery, might I add. Last I heard, she
would’ve preferred ripping out her own hair one by one than
completing her senior year in Florida.
When told the news, my brother gave my mom a shrug
with a careless “Okay.” But me? I was over the moon.
Winter’s the fun cousin you can’t wait to see at family
gatherings, the relative you’d go as far as to call a friend. She
and Aunt Lauren visit from Toronto every summer—or at
least, they used to. They couldn’t make it last year.
I missed my snarky cousin, and it sure won’t hurt having
another girl around until I go away for college. Me and Mom
can’t possibly compensate for all the testosterone my dickhead
of a brother and his two-brain-cells friends drag back home
every week.
I’m hoping Winter’s presence will buffer this burning need
I have to move to a deserted island away from the male
species. And by “male species” I mean the herd of baboons
Kendrick spends all his time with—Blake Nichols, Alexander
Holmes, and William Martins, also known as the banes of my
existence. Still working on that petition to get them transferred
to the local zoo.
Maybe with Winter here, I’ll even have someone to
confide in about how out of control Kendrick’s gotten since
Dad left. What I mean by out of control, you ask?
Oh, boy, where do I start?
I recently found out my big bro decided to trade his video
games violent fights for illegal, high-paying, very real street
fights. I overheard him and his dumbass friends talking about
it in the kitchen one night. They thought the house was empty
—not that I can blame them. Mom was working a night shift at
the hospital again, and I was supposed to be sleeping at a
friend’s place.
They were laughing, bragging about how much cash
they’d made in the ring, throwing back the beers Dad left in
the garage before he skipped town—special mention to Daddy
dearest for taking off with his kids’ bleeding hearts but leaving
the booze.
Kendrick told the guys the fights helped him control his
anger. I confronted him the next day. “How on earth does
destroying people’s faces help you control your anger?” I
asked. “Drop it, Kass. You wouldn’t understand,” he
answered.
In Kendrick’s defense, I don’t think there are many great
ways to react to your father walking out on you without a
goodbye, but news flash: I got abandoned, too, and I don’t go
around breaking noses for fun.
Kendrick made me promise not to tell our mom. And I
didn’t. But not because I wanted to protect him—not by a
freaking long shot. Because I wanted to protect her. She’s been
through hell and back these past few months, juggling the
divorce and becoming a single mother overnight. No way was
I adding on to her plate.
And while I may not care to ask questions, as I’d rather eat
Brussels sprouts for the rest of my life than get involved in my
brother’s drama, I have a feeling this street fight BS is way
bigger than Kendrick would like to admit. It might’ve started
out as a way to channel his anger, but now?
It’s more.
Much more.
Impatient, I pull out my phone to check the time. Winter
should be here any second. She’s been sending me memes
from the plane—you guessed it, her flight was boring. But not
as boring as the lady next to her who thought showing a
perfect stranger pictures of her cat for two hours straight was a
good idea.
I crack a smile.
Been there, done that.