Waiting for Oleander Springs Book 5?

I’ve never considered myself a rule breaker.

In fact, I like rules. Their structure lends security and focus, consistency and dependability.

This is why I’ve constructed a set of rules to ensure my freshman year of college goes smoothly and without complications while I work toward earning my degree as a cetologist to get my dream job, studying whales and dolphins.

The only problem is that my rules become difficult to remember when I hear his name.

Everyone has one of these name hot buttons, I’m convinced. A combination of vowels and consonants that, when strung together, create an entire web of memories and thoughts. For me, those letters spell Lincoln Beckett. And, like trying to convince myself that my two-year crush on him is over, I try to pretend his name doesn’t cast a spell over me. That I can hear his name and not work to listen to what news follows; after all, thinking about Lincoln is the very worst of bad ideas.

Why?

Simply put, I have ten rules that support not dating my brother’s best friend, beginning with the very fact that he’s my brother’s best friend. Secondly, he’s guaranteed to know way too much about my life, family, and brother’s illustrious decisions. The only thing that might be worse would be dating my best friend’s brother—thankfully, this isn’t a concern since my best friend’s brother is eleven.

Therefore, universal laws, fate, karma, sibling code, and any other fictional or otherwise belief should ensure my brother’s best friend looks okay-ish at worst and troll-ish at best. This was my experience for the first sixteen years of my life. My brother, Paxton, is two years older than me, and his childhood best friend, Caleb Whitaker, has a red Brillo Pad for hair, two-million freckles, and is so painfully awkward it’s endearing.

Then, Paxton started at Brighton University, here in Seattle, Washington, where our dad is the Dean of Business, and Pax was quickly deemed a God because of his skills as a quarterback and became friends with Lincoln Beckett. Even during the early stages of their friendship, my heart wasn’t safe.

Maybe it’s because I lied to my mom about the dent in the back of her car that actually did happen when I’d borrowed it and illegally drove my best friend, Poppy Anderson, to the mall. Maybe it was because I’d ditched school my junior year on a whim to protest illegal fishing without my parents knowing. Or, perhaps it was because fate had taken it easy on me for the first sixteen years of my life and decided I hadn’t shown enough appreciation. Because the day Paxton brought Lincoln Beckett over to our family’s house for the first time, fate began mocking me.

Lincoln, AKA the President, was well over six feet with broad shoulders and corded biceps. That night when he walked into our house, his dark hair was mussed in the most mesmerizing way, and his dark eyes were intense and watchful as Pax introduced him to us. As though his shockingly good looks weren’t enough, Lincoln was also armed with a quick smile and sharp wit that made his brown eyes shimmer with humor. And the full maim came when he shared that he was studying history, with a focus on Ancient Rome, revealing he was more than a pretty face.

Meeting him had me forgetting I’d been crushing on senior Michael Porter for three months—hell, it had me forgetting my own name.

Paxton and Lincoln moved out together a month later. Though Pax returned home frequently for hot meals and to do his laundry, Lincoln rarely joined him, leaving me to lust after him by memory and the rare occasion I’d stop by the house the two of them rented along with Caleb and Arlo Kostas, another teammate.

But, this year, things are going to change. Because this year, I, Raegan Lawson, am a freshman at Brighton University, and gone are the days of me fantasizing about Lincoln Beckett, the starting wide receiver and highly acclaimed football player with a killer smile who has amassed zillions of fans and admirers, my parents included. This year, I’m sticking to the rules and avoiding my brother’s best friend.

“Maybe I should have worn the pink shirt.” Poppy tugs on her pale blue blouse for the tenth time.

“This is awkward,” I say, ignoring her comment because I’ve already assured my best friend she looks great a hundred times to no avail. It”s obviously not my validation she’s seeking. “We’re so early.” Poppy’s my number one reason for attending Brighton, a university acclaimed for its football and law programs. It’s prestigious and expensive and, thankfully, has a robust marine biology program for me to earn my cetology degree.

“People hang out all the time.” Poppy looks around at the other students as though to prove her point. “Do you think any members of the rugby team will be in our classes?”

“The rugby team?”

Poppy grins, tucking her copper-red hair behind one ear. “I told you, if you want to get over Lincoln, the rugby team is going to be your ticket. One look at Blaine Campbell or Nick Carrol, and you”re going to be like Lincoln, who?”

I laugh. “You”ve already memorized their names?”

“You’ll understand when you see them.” She grins. “This year is going to be epic.”

I don”t voice my doubts. I don’t want to have them. I want to believe that my crush on Lincoln will soon be filed away as an embarrassing memory.

We pass a few guys who turn as we walk by. One whistles and makes a comment about our backsides. The other asks for our phone numbers.

I scrunch my nose. This may be harder than I expected.

Poppy and I stop near the Pratt Building, where my first class is. “You remember where you’re going?” I ask her.

She nods. “I’ll text you when my class ends, and we can go to lunch.”

Before I can respond, someone slides their arm around my shoulders. “What”s up, ladies?” My brother’s roommate from New Jersey and fellow teammate Arlo Kostas grins.

“Are all guys creeps?” I ask, ducking out from under the weight of his arm.

“Us? Creeps?” Arlo laughs. “Hold up, Pax and the Pres are behind me. They”re just chasing a skirt. Fresh meat on campus.” He whoops.

My heart stutters—a standard reaction to hearing his name. I turn, trying to catch sight of them, working to remain calm. Then, I straighten, remembering my rules.

“Don’t make me kill you, Kostas.” Pax appears with Lincoln at his side, pulling my attention like a magnet.

“My hands remained out of the end zone at all times.” Arlo raises his large hands as though to prove a point.

“Paws off,” Paxton declares. “Otherwise, you’ll be trying to catch the ball with your teeth this season.”

“Man, you”re going to have your work cut out for you,” Arlo says, smiling. “Freshmen are the flames, and we’re the moths. You know how it works.”

Pax shakes his head. “Poppy and Raegan are off-limits. You guys hear anyone on the team or anyone else saying something, you kick their ass.” Pax’s blue eyes, which match mine in both shape and color, peer around us.

“Easy, caveman. Remember, you”ve evolved a few hundred centuries, so lower your stick. Also, we’ll kick your ass if you meddle with who we date.”

Pax throws his arm over my shoulder, hooking my neck with his elbow so he has me in a loose headlock. “Don”t get all huffy. Trust me. You don’t want to be interested in anyone on the team. They’re all just looking to get laid.”

I shrug. “Maybe we are, too?”

Arlo cheers again to push Pax off the thin ledge his sanity was stacked upon.

Pax sputters. “I did not just hear that.”

“No shaming!” Arlo says. “How many girls did you sleep with your freshman year?” he poses the question to Paxton.

I raise my hands to cover my ears. “La, la, la, la, la. I don’t want to know. La. La. La. La.”

Paxton pulls my hands free. “Probably less than half the number of girls The President banged.”

I cringe at the reminder of my third rule for dating—never date a player.

Lincoln makes no attempt to argue the point. Instead, his full lips lift into a delicious smile that makes my stomach tingle. Good God, I love his smile. Everyone does. And to make matters worse, he knows it and uses it to his advantage, wielding it like a weapon.

Poppy grins. “Don”t worry. We don’t plan to bother with the football team. You guys can stick to your cleat chasers. We”re interested in the rugby team. Did you know they don”t wear any pads?” She raises her eyebrows to let the insinuation sink in. “Talk about real men.” She delivers the teasing insult directly where it counts most—their pride.

The three automatically reply, throwing insults and jabs at the sport and the players.

“Real men, “Arlo scoffs and grabs himself through his jeans. “I”ll show you?—”

Lincoln smacks the bill of Arlo’s baseball hat, sending it flying.

“You guys are better than asshole jocks,” Pax says.

“Wait. So, you do know you”re all a bunch of assholes?” I ask, feigning surprise.

Pax grins. “You should find a nice guy. Maybe a tech geek or a book nerd like you.”

“Watch it. I know where you sleep, and I still have your spare key,” I warn him.

“Want to use it tonight?” Arlo waggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t push me, Kostas,” Pax warns. “Your ass will be doing lines today for practice.”

Arlo only laughs, undeterred. I”m fairly certain he only flirts with me to irritate my brother.

Poppy giggles.

I duck out from under Pax. “I have to get to class.”

“We still have twenty minutes!” Poppy protests.

“I know, but I want to get a good seat.”

She frowns, her shoulders sagging. “Soak it up while you can because, after this week, you’re going to be a normal college student, slipping into class with five seconds to spare.”

I don’t even attempt to remind her that won’t ever happen. She already knows that despite my love for naps, long books, and iced coffee, my aspiration to become a cetologist can’t be rivaled.

“My fingers are crossed that you have a rugby player in your class!” Poppy yells.

I laugh. “You, too!”

Paxton shakes his head. “At least spare me the details.”

“Done,” I agree.

“Where are you headed?” my brother asks.

I scrunch my nose. “Math.”

Pax grins. “I”m heading over to the Pratt Building, too. Hang on. Poppy, if you need anything, just let one of us know.” He pauses, his gaze moving between her and me. “I’m serious, though. You guys don’t want to get mixed up with any athletes. All they care about is the game and what happens on the field. None of them are looking for anything serious because they’re all hoping to either be drafted or transfer to a new school for a better position.”

Rule number four feels like a lead weight in my stomach: don’t get attached to someone who will leave soon.

Poppy’s ex-boyfriend, Mike Rio, taught me this lesson, and I already know Lincoln will be moving on to bigger and better things—possibly as soon as the end of this year, next year at the latest.

“We’re not looking for engagement rings,” Poppy tells him. “I don’t know why guys always assume girls want to get serious. Have you ever considered maybe we just want to casually date?”

Paxton’s brows raise with disbelief. “I’m pretty sure we’ve seen enough crying girls to prove otherwise.”

“Tears of joy,” I say.

Pax smirks. “This isn’t high school. Here, athletes are practically celebrities. People ask for our autographs and our pictures. Follow us on and off campus. They randomly show up at the house. I’ve had girls sneak into my bed. I get sexts every damn day, and I’ve been proposed to at least a dozen times. Trust me when I say there are a lot of girls looking for more than a good time. They want money and fame, and they know that’s a possibility if they find the right dude.”

“That’s pathetic,” I say.

His smirk grows as he shrugs. “Is it? Do you know how much a first round draft pick football player makes?”

I try to appear unaffected, but inside, I’m reeling at the reality he’s painting us.

Pax shakes his head. “You guys don’t want to get mixed up in the drama.”

Poppy smiles widely. “We’re set on the rugby team. We also have the swim team, water polo, and wrestling.” She ticks off the teams on her fingers. “Oh, and lacrosse…”

“Lacrosse,” Arlo scoffs. “How is that even a sport?”

“Okay, I’m really going this time.” I take two steps back, offering a half-hearted wave.

“Yes,” Paxton says. “Focus on school and important shit.”

“Like you do?” Sarcasm has Poppy lowering her chin and raising her eyebrows.

“Do what I say, not what I do, or however that shit goes.” He jogs the few feet to catch up to me and drapes an arm over my shoulders as I turn toward the large red-brick building.

“Hey, Lawson!”

Paxton and I both turn at the sound of our last name. Lincoln stands beside Arlo, grinning.

“What?” Pax yells.

A gorgeous woman with blonde hair and a sunny smile approaches Lincoln and says something I can’t hear from where Pax and I stand some hundred feet away.

Lincoln glances at her, his recognition visible as he says something before turning his focus back to us. He’s too far away, and my brother is standing too close to confirm it, but I swear Lincoln’s looking directly at me.

I swallow and stare back.

“Nothing.” Lincoln shakes his head.

The blonde smiles and steps closer to him, placing a hand on his chest.

“See,” Pax whispers. “Trust me. You don’t want to deal with dating an athlete.” His arm around my shoulders tightens.