The Off Limits Rule (It Happened in Nashville #1) - Sarah Adams Page 0,1

smeared across the side of my face. “I’m a grown adult woman with a child, so your older-brother threats aren’t effective anymore.”

He tilts his head down slowly—making a point that he’s, like, 19 million feet taller than me—and makes direct eye contact. “You’re wearing dinosaur PJ pants. And as long as you call me, pulling that baby-sister card when you need my help with something, the older-brother threats count.”

I raise an indignant chin. “I never do that.” I definitely do it all the time.

“Take a shower, and then put on a swimsuit.”

I make a disgusted ugh sound like the mature adult I am. “I am NOT going swimming with you. All I want to do is eat disgusting takeout, fill my body to the brim with MSG, and then crawl under the covers until next year rolls around with new shiny promises of happiness.”

He’s not listening. He’s turning me around and pushing me toward the bathroom. “Get to it, stinky. Like it or not, you’re putting on a swimsuit and coming with me. It’s been too long since you’ve seen the sun, and you look like a cadaver.” I’m feeling blessed that he didn’t mention I smell like one too.

“I hate the pool.” I’m a cartoon now, and my arms are long droopy noodles, dragging across the floor as I’m pushed toward the bathroom.

“Lucky we’re not going to one then. My buddy and I are taking the boat out to wakeboard for the afternoon. You’re coming too.”

I’m standing motionless in the bathroom now, eyebrows-deep in my sullen mood as Drew pulls back the shower curtain and starts the water. He digs under the sink and pulls out a fluffy towel, tossing it onto the counter. He’s giving me tough love right now, but I know underneath all this dominance is a soft, squishy middle. Drew has one tender spot in life, and it’s me. The tenderness also extends to Levi, by association and because his cheeks are so chunky and round you can’t help but dissolve into a pool of wobbly Jell-O when he smiles at you.

“Isn’t it, like…frowned upon to skip work on a Wednesday?” I ask, trying to needle him so he’ll leave me alone with my candy bars and sadness.

“Yes, but it’s Sunday.” The judgment in his voice is thick. “And unless one of my patients goes into labor, I have Sundays off.”

I blow air out through my mouth, making a motorboat sound because I’m too braindead and wasted on chocolate from my pity party for snappy comebacks. Which is sad because snappy comebacks are my thing.

“Lucy,” Drew says, bending to catch my eye like he knows my thoughts were starting to wander back down the dark tunnel to mopey-land. He points behind him to the steaming stream of water. “Lather, rinse, and repeat. You’ll feel better.” He leans forward and gives a dramatic sniff. “Maybe even repeat a few times. Then move on to the toothbrush, because I think something crawled in your mouth and died.” Siblings are so sweet.

I punch him hard in the arm, and he just smiles like he’s happy to see me showing some signs of life. “But seriously, thank you,” I say quietly. “Thanks for taking me in too. You’re always rescuing me.” The day I realized I was a week late for my period, Drew was the one who drove to the store and bought my pregnancy test. He’s the one who held me when I cried and told me I wouldn’t have to go it alone because I’d have him (and then my parents quickly hip-checked him out of the way and reminded me I’d have them too). This is part of the reason I moved to Atlanta a year ago—not because I wanted to get away from them, but because I wanted to prove to myself I could stand on my own two feet and support my son.

Spoiler alert: I can’t.

I’m a twenty-nine-year-old single mom and unemployed hairdresser (I got fired from the salon I was working at) who’s having to live with my older brother because I don’t have a penny in savings. Turns out, kids are mega-expensive. And when you choose to live away from your support system as a single parent, you have to put your child in daycare (which costs your arm), and hire babysitters when you want to go out on the weekend (which costs your leg), or hire a full-time nanny (which costs your soul). Although Levi’s dad, Brent, pays child support,