The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  She laughs. “I’m not just dropping it in. I was actually there. I’m trying to expand the NFL into Europe more, and I had meetings with marketers.”

  I hum appreciatively as I reach the next block. “It is so sexy when you talk about marketing and expanding sports to other places. Can you please do that for baseball too?”

  “If I owned a baseball team, I damn well would,” she says.

  Does she have any idea how hot it is that she owns a team? That is equator-level heat. A powerful woman. A confident woman. A brilliant woman. Nadia Harlowe has got it going on.

  Wait.

  Don’t do that either, brain. Do not think about your buddy’s sister like that. Hell, do not think about any woman like that right now. You’re in time-out with the ladies.

  “Then buy a baseball team,” I say, sticking to the conversation rather than the director’s track of innuendo running through my mind.

  She laughs. “Rules. The NFL has them. If I buy a baseball team, it has to be in San Francisco, so do you want me to buy your team or the Dragons?”

  I wince. “Ouch. Don’t talk about buying my local rival.”

  “How about I just move back to San Francisco and run the football team?”

  “Fine, be that way. But you know you love baseball more.”

  “I love both sports, and I love interesting stories. So what’s the story with you suddenly wanting to buddy up? And are you enlisting me as a fill-in date? Is this like the start of a romantic comedy where we agree to plus-one each other? Ooh, can we call our story Plus-Oneing with the Best Man?”

  “Let’s sell the movie rights and make a mint,” I quip. Then I answer truthfully. “Yes, I was hoping you can plus-one the best man, since I’m not bringing anyone. In fact, I am taking a break from dating. I am officially off the market from now through spring training. Probably beyond too.”

  She laughs as I head down the next block. “I’m sure there’s a fabulous story behind that. But I’m going to wait to hear it in person.”

  “You’re already ordering up the entertainment you want from me at the wedding table? I hope I can deliver.”

  “I sure hope you can too, Crosby.”

  “I’ll be prepping all of my best jokes for you. All of my best stories. I’m going to be thoroughly entertaining in my blue tux. Did you know Mariana has a thing for blue?”

  “Hello? Bridesmaid here. Yes, I knew that. And I have a blue dress ready for the event. Mariana has great taste in bridesmaids’ dresses, and this one is quite pretty.”

  “So is my blue tux. It’s got some badass ruffles on it and bell-bottoms.”

  She makes a husky growling sound low in her throat. “Mmm. Hold me back.”

  I blink, processing that sound. Did Nadia always sound this . . . sexy? Maybe? Possibly. Hell, she looks sexy, so it stands to reason she sounds that way too.

  “It’ll be hard to hold anyone back once you see me in my wedding ruffles,” I tease. “Consider this your fair warning, because I look pretty damn handsome in it.”

  “So you think I won’t be able to keep my hands off you? Because I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” she says, a little flirtier than usual.

  But perhaps I’m reading into her tone, hearing things that shouldn’t be there. She and I have always had fun together. Have always indulged in a flirty, friendly vibe.

  That’s just who we are. Nothing more, nothing less.

  “I guess we’ll just have to see about that. Maybe I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you,” I toss back, and then I want to smack myself as I near the gym.

  She chuckles lightly, in a sort of challenging tone, as if her laugh is saying just try me. “We’ll just have to see when it comes to the big day,” she says.

  “I guess we’ll see who’s best at hands-off.”

  “We will indeed.”

  Why am I talking to her like this? Like I’m going to be touching her? I’m not. We are friends. She’s my buddy’s sister. I’ve known her forever. I’m not going to touch her. Ever. She’s my plus-one at her brother’s wedding. That’s what I need her for.

  I reach Total Body Fitness, a little reluctant to end this conversation. It’s so easy to talk to her. Always has been. “Hey,” I say, gentler.

  “Hey to you.”

  “I’m glad you’re coming back to town,” I say, speaking from my heart, not my need to serve up sarcasm. “It’s been a while.”

  “It has been. Too long, Crosby,” she says, her voice warm and tender.

  And there we go. We’re us again. Like we’ve always been. Two good friends. A man and a woman who’ve known each other forever.

  “And I appreciate you being my plus-one. It’ll be good to see you,” I say.

  “And it’ll be good for me to keep you from dating,” she says.

  “True. That is true,” I say with a smile. I’m about to push open the door to the gym when an idea flashes before me. “Do I get to see this blue dress beforehand? You know, if I need to get you a corsage.”

  “It’s a wedding. It’s not prom. But a corsage and boutonniere do sound kind of fun.” She takes a beat, humming. “Actually, Mariana is big on flowers. She always wants people to have the flowers they like best. And I’m pretty sure my mom said the other bridesmaids were going to have them and they were picking out their own, so yes, let’s do it.”

  “I’m on it. Let’s do it up. You better send me a picture of your dress so I know exactly what color to get when I go to the florist’s shop,” I say.

  “Consider it done.”

  We say goodbye, and I head into the gym, more excited than I expected to be to go to my best friend’s wedding.

  And not simply because I’m happy as hell to see my best friend get hitched.

  There’s a spring in my step as I imagine his sister in a blue dress.

  How it might dip between her breasts. How it might swing on her hips. Land on her knees.

  But that’s dangerous. I shouldn’t think of her like that.

  Even so, when a picture lands on my phone as I’m working my quads, my breath hitches.

  The air rushes from my lungs.

  And it’s not from the extra weight. It’s not from the workout.

  It’s from this goddamn dress and the way she looks in it.

  She didn’t merely send me a shot of her dress, artfully laid out on the bed.

  She sent me a picture of her in a boutique somewhere in Vegas, trying on the dress. It’s a mirror selfie, and it is smoking.

  Nadia’s all done up, her lips pursed like she’s about to blow a kiss, and she is wearing the fuck out of a sapphire-blue dress that clings to her trim, toned body.

  This dress defies any notion of hideous bridesmaid’s attire.

  This dress is all sex appeal and secrets.

  It looks like exactly the type of dress that’s going to make it hard for me to sit next to Nadia Harlowe.

  But that’s the kind of thinking I can’t entertain.

  Instead, I entertain the triceps machine and do my best to push the forbidden thoughts of this woman out of my head.

  4

  Nadia

  One week later, Eric picks me up at the airport.

  “It’s the blushing groom,” I say as I sail past security into a big-brother hug.

  “Yes, that’s me,” he says, wrapping his arm around me, then letting go. “I’m all nervous and atwitter before the wedding.”

  “Aww.” I pat his shoulder. “Do you want me to make sure you get a foot rub and a massage before the big day? So you can relax?” I ask, hoisting my purse onto my shoulder as he takes my carry-on and we weave through the crowds.

  “That sounds perfect. Why don’t you and I spend a day at the spa? Get our hair done.” He slides a hand through his dark-brown hair, the same shade as mine. “We’ll relax and get hot stone treatments or something.”

  “Perfect. I want to make sure you’re totally relaxed before you walk down the aisle,” I say, squeezing his ar
m playfully as we make our way through the SFO airport.

  He shakes his head, amused. “You do know that Mariana is actually walking down the aisle toward me?”

  “Oh my God, I had no idea. Thanks for clarifying,” I add.

  Eric raises his gaze ceilingward, then says, over-the-top aggrieved, “My fiancée, my older sister, and my younger sister give me a hard time every single day.”

  “Of course we do. And you wouldn’t want it any other way,” I say, bopping his nose.

  “Speaking of walking down the aisle, Mariana wants you and Crosby to walk together.”

  That piques my interest.

  Makes my skin tingle a little bit.

  Just from the mention of his name.

  Exactly the reaction I can’t have.

  “Why’s that?” I ask, focusing on the wedding plan, not the tingles plan. “Crosby is the best man, and Mariana’s sister is the maid of honor.”

  Eric holds up a making-a-point finger. “But Mariana’s sister’s husband is a groomsman, and Mariana thought they’d enjoy walking together, so she put you and Crosby together.”

  I smile widely. “What Mariana wants, Mariana shall have.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the secret to a happy marriage. But,” he says, his tone downshifting to serious as we reach the exit, “no dating him.”

  A cough bursts from me. “Did you seriously just warn me not to date your best friend? Doesn’t it usually go the other way around?”

  Eric shakes his head, his dark-brown eyes intense. “Crosby is in time-out right now. I’m personally in charge of making sure all women stay far, far away from him.”

  I scoff. “I have no interest in dating Crosby or anyone.”

  That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

  “Good. Because it’s my duty to keep him on the wagon. No dating, no women, no nothing.”

  “Trust me, not dating Crosby will be just like . . . how it’s always been. Crosby and I are friends.”

  “Good. Then you’ll do your part to keep him woman-free too,” he says.

  “Of course,” I say quickly, because he’s definitely a friend, so I’m definitely down with the program.

  As we slide into the town car, I tell myself that heeding Eric’s warning will be as easy as a quarterback lobbing a pass to a wide-open receiver.

  And the receiver running it in for a touchdown.

  Except there will be no scoring with Crosby.

  Mark my words.

  At the night-before-the wedding dinner the next Friday, I walk into the private room at one of San Francisco’s swankiest celebrity chef restaurants, my eyes scanning the place for all the people I love—my mom, my sister, my brother, his bride, and all my extended family.

  Warmth spreads through me at the sight of all this family. I say hi to my mom, sister, brother, and Mariana, looking gorgeous with her waves of brown hair, and her olive skin.

  There’s no sign of Crosby, until a hand clasps my shoulder.

  And the faint scent of pine mixed with soap wafts past my nose.

  For a sliver of a second, I close my eyes.

  Then I open them, turn around, and ignore the hell out of the swoopy sensations in my stomach.

  Crosby’s here, looking as handsome as he did at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala.

  But he’s always been handsome, and I’ve always handled it just fine.

  Because we’re just friends.

  “A hundred bucks says your brother’s teary-eyed by the end of the night when he gives his toast,” he says in that gravelly, sexy voice that sends a dangerous zing down my spine.

  Zero in on the way we are.

  “You’re already throwing down bets? The dinner hasn’t even started.”

  He lifts a shoulder, all casual and confident. “I know your brother well.”

  “As do I. So why would I bet against him?”

  Crosby’s blue eyes gleam with mischief. “How about we lay down a bet on how long into his speech it takes for him to tear up?”

  “You’re so cruel,” I say with mischievous delight, then lower my voice. “But I love it.”

  I look at my watch, a slim platinum band that my father gave me when he asked me to take over the team. My heart clenches as I hear the echo of his voice, the somber intensity in his request, and the inscription I read daily. It’s your turn.

  I wear a ruby ring he and my mom gave me too, a gift when I graduated from my master’s program. They remind me of him, of them, of their love.

  I wish he were here tonight.

  But if he were, he’d want us all to have fun. To enjoy friends and family to the fullest.

  That’s what I vow to do.

  I raise my chin, dig into the analytical portion of my brain, and lay down my bet. Bets are fun. Bets are friendly. “Twenty seconds.”

  Crosby’s grin goes crooked. “You don’t have a lot of hope in your big brother.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Who’s to say that’s not hopeful? Maybe I like his sweet and soft side.”

  “Fair enough. But I’m going with forty seconds,” he whispers.

  I offer him a hand to shake. He takes it, then he jerks me closer so I’m inches away. “How about a hug, Wild Girl?”

  My breath catches. I’m nearly flush against a wall of muscle. His chest is so broad, so sturdy. I’m near enough for his scent to drift past my nose, and my nose likes the way he smells.

  “So we’re sealing our bet with a hug instead of a handshake?” I ask, evening my tone. I don’t want to let on that this proximity is scrambling parts of my brain.

  Parts I didn’t expect to be scrambled so soon.

  “Hell yeah. Best way to bet.” Crosby wraps those major league arms around me, bracketing me in. I steal another inhale of that fresh scent of wood and freshly showered man, and my traitorous body does a salsa dance.

  I sternly lecture all those tingles trying to take over my mind.

  It’s nothing.

  He simply smells good.

  Intrinsically, objectively good, like a cologne ad in a magazine.

  That’s it. He’s simply one of those eau de manliness spreads in GQ. You’d feel this way about any handsome man. It’s only logical, considering how long it’s been.

  When he lets go, I punch him on the shoulder to keep us in the pals zone. “Then we’re on. One hundred dollars. But for the record,” I say, lifting my chin, “there’s nothing wrong with a man getting a little emotional about getting married.”

  “Did I say there was?” he asks. Around us, guests mill about, lifting champagne flutes, catching up, snagging stuffed mushroom appetizers and avocado sushi from the waiters circling by.

  “No. But you seem to be mocking him.”

  “That’s literally my job as his best friend,” he deadpans.

  I point to my chest. “Hey, that’s my job too, as his sister.”

  He leans in, his face near mine, his voice turning a bit . . . naughty. “Then, should we spend the night mocking him together?”

  That rumble in his voice makes the little hairs on the back of my neck rise, like they’re sashaying closer to him.

  What is up with my body’s reaction to him? Settle down, hormones.

  “I think we should definitely mock Eric,” I whisper conspiratorially. Talking about my brother has to alleviate these Crosby-induced heat flutters.

  So that’s what we do during dinner—playfully mock my brother like we did when we were younger.

  Trouble is, all this teasing—leaning close, whispering jokes, laughing together—brings back memories of growing up. Memories and emotions that I shelved, happy to ignore them.

  Like the crush I had on him way back when.

  Yes, that memory, which struts to the forefront of my mind and brings along with it little flutter kicks to join the tingles still ignoring my lectures.

  These are the same flutters I felt for Crosby when he was my older brother’s best friend in high school.

  Y
ou’re older now.

  You’re not the sophomore to his senior.

  You’re not the girl watching the prom king go to the dance with another girl.

  I straighten my shoulders, letting all those old memories fall away. I don’t have crushes. No matter how good the crushee smells.

  At the end of the meal, my brother stands, taps his glass, and clears his throat. “Here we go,” Crosby whispers in my ear, and I rein in the shiver.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Eric says, smiling as he surveys the table. “It means the world to me to see so many of our friends and family here. I look around this room and know that I’m a man who wants for nothing.” He takes a beat though, licking his lips. “The only thing I’m missing is my dad.”

  Eric’s voice cracks. I’m right on time, twenty seconds in, but I’m not enjoying victory. Too many hard emotions swell in me too.

  My heart clenches, and grief tightens my throat. I cover my mouth, and Crosby reaches for my free hand under the table, squeezing it.

  He’s quiet, but that squeeze speaks volumes. I know this is hard. I know you all miss him. I know you all wanted him to be here.

  Eric goes on, and when he’s done, I turn to my seatmate and coconspirator, and say, “Thank you. And don’t worry about the bet. I’m not planning to collect.”

  “You better,” he says with a sharp stare.

  I shake my head. “I can’t. And you didn’t win, so it’s my call. Don’t try to negotiate with me.” I keep my tone soft but firm.

  “Fine, then you’ll have to let me take you out to dinner sometime,” he says.

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  But not a date. Not between us. It can’t be.

  As we make our way out of the rehearsal dinner, Crosby collects my jacket at the coat check then slides it onto my arms. “I’m picking up that corsage tomorrow, Nadia,” he says. “You’re going to look like a prom queen.”

  I laugh. Laughter is safer than all these other feelings. “And you’ll look like the prom king you were.”