Chapter Seven
Category Five Meltdown
Absolutely not. No way. Not a chance.
She hadn’t even been committed to her No Sex Rule for twenty-four hours, and her supposed bestie wanted to drop a Category Five hurricane bomb on her now?
Arie leaned against the counter, not feeling threatened in the least. “Listen, I understand that you have shit going on right now. But so does Ellis.” She popped a grape into her mouth.
Isla groaned, snatching the bowl of grapes away from her.
Things?
It was not just things.
Isla had quite literally committed—earlier today—to working on herself.
By herself.
And now Arie wanted to drop the bomb that Ellis Mann was moving in “for now,” with no foreseeable future exit date.
Arie pushed off the counter and reached for the grapes.
But before Arie was able to get an arm’s reach, Isla planted a palm against her face and lifted the bowl over her head.
“I can’t believe your hot brother is moving in with us. ”
Arie mumbled something incoherent behind Isla’s hand. Finally, she wriggled free, wiping at her face and gathering herself. “He moved back to the city over a month ago, but the apartment he’s renting was booked for the month by another family. Then the house he put an offer on fell through, so he’s back to looking. I promise it won’t be long.”
Long, Isla’s ass.
This market was horrible, and anything halfway affordable had people bidding thousands over asking. Who could afford to live like this?
Arie could.
But that wasn’t the point.
She had worked her ass off to be where she was at in her father’s media company. She graduated with honors and earned her MBA in communications.
Isla, meanwhile, had finished school promptly after earning her bachelor’s degree and never looked back.
She hadn’t exactly been a model student. She liked to party and was always game to go wherever, whenever.
But trying to wake her up the morning after a bender was like trying to raise the dead.
Arie, on the other hand, was the type of person who could party all night long. Wake up , run five miles, pop two ibuprofen, chug every electrolyte known to mankind, and still make it to class looking as though hydration and ambition had personally kissed her on the forehead that morning.
After the first few GNOs—girls’ nights out—Arie stopped wasting her energy trying to wake Isla.
She had learned.
The dead preferred to sleep.
“Heyyyy,” Isla cried as Arie somehow managed to reclaim the bowl of grapes and set it out of reach.
Her so-called best friend had just confiscated her emotional-support grapes and ruined her foreseeable future.
She guessed she understood.
It was just…
“Why does he have to be so goddamn hot, though?” Isla whined.
Arie made a sour face. “Ewww.” She traded the grapes for her stemless wineglass that was left on the quartz countertop. “It wouldn’t matter if he was hideous. He’s my brother, and I can’t have you and Ellis become a you-and-Ellis kind of thing. That shit ruins friendships.”
Isla hadn’t thought of it that way.
That was her problem, wasn’t it?
Always thinking of any possible way to get to a man she was attracted to. Not even slowly. She could clock a jawline, a pair of shoulders, one inconveniently deep voice, and immediately start making a list of what he could do for her—in and out of the bedroom—with a zero-point-four-second reaction time.
And maybe, occasionally, women.
Arie was right.
Isla would never want to ruin their friendship. It was the longest relationship she’d ever had with anyone outside of family.
How could she even think twice about risking the one person who had always been there while she battled the grief of losing her dad?
Still battled it.
It was something she didn’t think she would ever truly get over. She had only learned how to make room for it without letting it consume her.
“I just don’t understand why he has to look like, well… that.” Isla forced the joke, because if she didn’t make it funny, she might have to sit with the ugly part. “I know you’re right. It’s just that having him around is going to be distracting. I mean, look at him. Was he always this hot?”
“Again,” Arie said into her wineglass, “gross.”
Isla turned toward her friend, remembering their earlier conversation at Down the Rabbit Hole — the one they had tabled until they got home.
“Other than waiting to inform me that your brother is, in fact, a smoke show and moving in with us before tonight, why didn’t you tell me you were going to book club without me?”
Arie finished the last sip of her drink before placing the glass in the sink. “Because I was over hearing you tell me about another first or second date you had with some loser instead.” She shrugged.
Ouch.
That landed somewhere behind Isla’s sternum.
She hadn’t realized her obnoxious dating life had started bleeding into her friendship.
Arie was a busy woman, and Isla had never expected her to make a book club meeting in Queens, no less, with a bunch of older women who talked hideously dirty to each other the entire time they attempted to discuss a book only some members actually read.
But Arie had shown up.
Where Isla loved a good old fashion hard cover book, Arie enjoyed listening to audiobooks instead.
When they started the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, it had taken them two years to read the series together. They had anxiously awaited every new installment after that. If Isla ever met the woman who created Jamie and Claire Fraser—better yet, read and edited one of her works—she would consider herself accomplished in life.
The time they had spent reading that series together had probably been the closest they’d ever been.
A gnawing feeling settled in the pit of Isla’s stomach.
She had been selfish.
She had taken Arie’s time for granted, knowing Arie was just as busy as she was.
No.
Busier than most people.
But everyone’s time is valuable, and Isla had been treating her best friend’s time as dispensable.
Instead of making excuses, Isla accepted her friend’s word for exactly what they were.
Truth.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
Arie folded her arms across her chest. “Do us both a favor? Focus on yourself, and you won’t even notice Ellis moved in.”
Easy for her to say.
She didn’t see what every other woman on Earth saw.
“Well, you don’t have to be so cocky about it.”
“Who would I be if I weren’t” Arie joked.
Then her expression softened.
“Listen, seriously. I’m really proud of you for wanting to self-heal and all that jazz.” She literally made jazz hands. “I’m only hard on you because I know you can take it, and because you’re my best friend. I will always be honest with you and tell you when your behavior is atrocious.”
Both of them nodded.
“And I have,” Arie added.
“Repeatedly,” Isla muttered.
“Just keep your dick in your pants, okay?” Arie tapped Isla’s cheek, indicating her pep talk was over, and headed to her bedroom.
Isla checked the time above the stove.
Eleven o’clock.
She had gotten zero to-do’s crossed off her list this afternoon.
She’d been so focused on creating the NSR, going to book club, having her world turned upside down at said book club, and then realizing her best friend had been annoyed with her for who knew how long.
She was exhausted.
Not only with the day.
With herself.
But she was also too busy to think twice about skipping the next chapter she had been working on.
Part of the No Sex Rule wasn’t just about sex.
It was about becoming accountable.
To herself.
Someone who didn’t make questionable choices—not only with men, but with her professional and personal life, too.
She grabbed her laptop, curled up on the couch, and opened the manuscript waiting for her.
If she was serious about becoming the woman she wanted to be…
It started now.
E. Lynn Jimenez is the writer behind The Hollow Quill and The No Sex Rule, a members-only serialized rom-com about bad dates, bold rules, and the kind of attraction that loves showing up at the worst possible time. Inside the Fiction Book Club, she shares Isla’s story one chapter at a time—with all the tension, humor, heart, and emotional chaos readers came here for.
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Stories for EVERYONE who know that love, laughter, and second chances don't end at twenty-five.
No sex.
No make-out sessions.
One good kisser and Isla is done for.
No heavy petting.
One brush anywhere near her nether regions and she might as well rip this whole thing up.
Dating is allowed.
If she wants to torture herself.
Masturbation is okay.
Under controlled circumstances.
No sex!
No Sex!
NO SEX!