The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  That was the end of the moment—a terribly brief one.

  At the time, I didn’t think much of our conversation. I filed it away in the drawer of Nadia intel.

  But in retrospect, it feels like it was the start of something.

  At least for me.

  Maybe the start of seeing her as something more than my friend’s sister.

  Seeing her as a woman. With desires, with interests, with dates.

  When the ceremony ends and we exit the ballroom, heading into the hotel hallway, waiting for the pics to begin, I want to know what her dating situation is.

  Scratch that. I need to know. It feels important. In the same way that it felt important to know how prom went.

  What if she’s seeing someone?

  I dive right in. “Now that you’re back, are you going to break all the hearts in San Francisco? Like Charlie Duncan’s was surely broken the night you declared him duller than a biscuit.”

  She laughs. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in ages.”

  “Your prom date,” I supply.

  “Yeah, I know. He was sort of . . .” She looks me over, her gaze landing on the lapel of my jacket. “About as interesting as a pocket square.”

  I tug on mine. “I’d say, ‘Poor Charlie,’ but I can’t muster any sympathy for a dude on the same level as a piece of ornamental clothing.”

  She laughs. “At least I didn’t call him a hanky.”

  “I might have felt bad for him then.”

  She shakes her head. “Nah, I don’t think you would have.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say, then return to getting the info I want. “So you must have left behind a trail of broken hearts, then, in Las Vegas.”

  She scoffs. “Not even a nicked heart, Crosby.”

  “How about paper cuts? Did you administer all sorts of paper cuts on the hearts of the men of Vegas?”

  With a sliver of a sad smile, she shakes her head. “Not even the tiniest little ache or bruise, I swear.”

  This I find hard to believe. “Are you really telling me that you’ve been single the whole time?”

  “The entire time.”

  Whoa.

  How is it possible that a babe of the highest order does not leave behind a trail of shattered hearts?

  I scratch my jaw, furrow my brow, and part my lips, trying to figure out what to say, because this is insane. “How is that possible?” I ask, taking my time with each word like I’m speaking in a foreign language, but this is foreign to me. And hell, it ought to be foreign to everyone.

  I eye her from stem to stern. From knee to breast.

  She’s gorgeous and brilliant and fascinating.

  She clears her throat. “My eyes are up here, Crosby,” she says, pointing to those big brown irises that are like pools of the warmest color, with gold flecks at the edges, drawing me in.

  Busted.

  But I’m cool with that.

  It was simply a friendly assessment of the sitch.

  “And they are a beautiful brown. I was just doing my due diligence. Assessing everything that you just said. Trying to figure out what kind of fucktangular insanity is happening to the men in Las Vegas?”

  “Actually, it’s frocktagonal insanity, but to-may-toe, to-mah-toe.”

  I laugh. “I forgot—you don’t swear.”

  She flutters her lashes. “I’m such a good girl.”

  Is she though?

  My mind wanders once again to images of this good girl being bad. Shake it off, man. “Of course you are.” I narrow my eyes, goading her. “But someday I’ll get you to swear.”

  “You’ll have to work really forking hard at that,” she says, all saucy as she throws down a challenge.

  “You’re on,” I say, offering her a hand to shake on it.

  She shakes back, then gestures to my eyes. “So that whole slide-your-gaze-up-and-down is due diligence? Is that what it’s called?” Her lips corkscrew in an I’ve caught you smile.

  I square my shoulders, owning it. “Yes. Indeed it is. I’m all about gathering empirical evidence. And I’ve gathered it with eyes, ears, and brain. You are a goddess, and the fact that men in Vegas do not know this leads me to arrive at only one conclusion. Men in Las Vegas are clearly douche trumpets.”

  “I was going to go with dingle nuggets, but yours works too,” she says.

  I snap my fingers. “Dammit.”

  “Nice try though, getting me to cave,” she says in a sexy taunt.

  “But is ‘douche’ actually a swear?”

  “Would you say it in a boardroom?” she counters. “That was my father’s logic. If you won’t say it in a boardroom, don’t say it.”

  “Ah, I don’t hang out in boardrooms. Locker rooms for this guy.”

  “And boardrooms for this gal. So it’s ‘dingles,’ ‘forks,’ and ‘sons of a mailbox’ for me,” she says, tapping her chest. “Rather than ‘sons of you-know-what.’”

  “That’s perfect—the men of Vegas are sons of mailboxes.”

  She inches closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or have you considered I scare them off with my anti-man perfume?”

  “Like mosquito repellent but for dudes?” I ask, like I’m processing this new development. Dipping my hand into the front pocket of my suit pants, I grab my phone, click on my Amazon app, then speak into it. “Alexa, show me anti-man repellent.”

  The coolly robotic voice asks if I want mosquito repellent.

  Nadia shakes her head, wagging her finger. “You’ve got to ask her for anti-man repellent on discount. Don’t you want a deal?”

  I nod, big and long. “Yes. You know me so well.” I clear my throat and speak more slowly. “Alexa, show me your Deal of the Day anti-man repellent.”

  “I did not understand. Please repeat that request,” the voice from my phone chirps.

  “Hold on. I’ve got this.” Nadia leans in closer. “Show me douche biscuit repellent.”

  The phone is quiet for a few seconds, then Alexa speaks. “Here are the results for goose biscuit pellets.”

  I cringe, shuddering.

  Nadia joins me, full-on horror-movie-style. “Who is buying goose biscuit pellets?”

  “And are they for the goose or the eater of the goose?” I ask.

  “Are they even organic?”

  “Organic goose eggbeaters. Here are more results,” the phone voice chimes in, picking up on words we both said.

  Nadia doubles over, cracking up. “I refuse to believe that’s a thing.”

  “Alexa said it. You cannot argue with Alexa,” I say, turning off the app and tucking the phone into my pocket.

  “I can, and I will,” Nadia says. “Especially since Alexa can’t find the anti-man perfume that I clearly bought on Subscribe and Save a few months ago. I mean, how else to explain my absolute terrible luck?”

  “Want me to test your perfume? See if it works?”

  “You’re not worried it might scare you away?” Her voice dips low, to a tone that suggests I’d be in danger if my nose goes near her.

  “I’ve got this. Hold my beer,” I say, handing her an imaginary can.

  I draw a deep breath, shake out my arms, and stretch my neck, limbering up like I’m going to battle.

  She waggles her fingers by her neck and lifts her chin, giving me room. That is a gorgeous image—her leaning in, offering her neck.

  Setting a hand on the bare skin of her arm, I congratulate myself for finding an excuse to move closer to her.

  But even so, this is all fun and games.

  No matter how sexy she is, we are just friends having a good time.

  A damn good time.

  I play along with the teasing mood, dipping closer. My nose brushes faintly across her skin. My eyes close. A rumble works its way up my throat, and my senses go haywire.

  My fuses trip, nerves fraying like an electrical wire about to snap.

  Nadia Harlowe smells better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.

&n
bsp; And I don’t want this dream to end.

  So I linger, my nose skating along the delicate skin of her throat, getting high off the scent of her.

  Like a summer day, but with a hint of something floral under it.

  Like a tropical bloom after a summer rainstorm, the kind of afternoon shower that leaves droplets of water clinging to your skin, roaming over soft, dewy flesh.

  That’s what she smells like.

  Like she’s wearing a bikini and a little sarong thing, like we’ve been wandering through the emerald-green gardens on Kauai, stealing kisses on a hot day as the sun beats down and we hunt for shade.

  My mind is officially elsewhere. It’s in vacationland with Nadia. It’s in Lustville. In Fantasy Arena.

  Isn’t this the problem? Isn’t this my kryptonite? The very thing I vowed to stop at the tux store?

  But then, maybe it’s not.

  Because Nadia and I aren’t the problem.

  She’s not the type of woman I need to resist. She’s not an ex, she’s not bad news, she’s not trouble.

  She’s the opposite.

  A friend.

  A damn good one.

  And I can be pals with a sexy-as-sin woman. Doesn’t mean I’m caving.

  In fact, I’m doing just fine on my diet.

  Sure, my friend smells mind-bendingly delicious. But I’m not giving her the keys to my car, the code to my bank account, or any piece of my heart.

  And boom. Done. Snapped myself out of a Nadia-induced trance just like that. By zeroing in on the friendship. I keep that up, doing my best impression of a cat hacking up a hair ball, Puss-in-Boots-in-Shrek-style. Fake retching, I cringe like I’m repulsed by her scent. “Yep, that’s it. You’re clearly anathema to men.”

  She swats my shoulder with her bouquet. But I’m a fast motherfucker. Reflexes—I’ve got them.

  I catch her wrist, the one without the corsage, circling my fingers around her. As my hand curls, her breath hitches. She swallows.

  Ah, hell.

  That’s too hard to resist. Even for a friend.

  I plant a kiss on her wrist. Soft, gentle, and maybe with a hint of my tropical fantasies.

  Then I meet her eyes. “My due diligence is done.”

  “And what have you decided?” she asks, a little breathy, a lot sexy.

  Without letting go of her beautiful brown-eyed gaze, I give her my honest assessment. “Men in Vegas have achieved top marks in the field of dipshittery. And I hereby welcome you to San Francisco on behalf of all the men in the city, such as myself, who were raised to appreciate smart, confident, outgoing, kick-ass, and gorgeous women.”

  A blush travels slowly across her skin and up her chest, spreading twin spots of pink to her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Crosby. I needed that. I truly appreciate that,” she says, her voice warm and affectionate. Then she takes a breath, seeming to center herself. She squares her shoulders, and I take that as my cue to let go of her wrist.

  She taps my chest with the flowers. “And don’t forget, you owe me stories. I want to be fully entertained during the reception with all of your tales. I need to know all about your dating break. We’re buddies.”

  Exactly.

  We’re buddies.

  She gets it. I get it. It’s all good.

  I salute her. “Ready to entertain you,” I say, then her sister steps into my line of sight, waves her hand, earth-to-Nadia-style, then shoots us a stare. “Come on, lovebirds. It’s picture time,” Brooke says, her husband and daughter a few feet behind her.

  “Lovebirds,” I whisper to Nadia, adding a scoff.

  “That’s as ridiculous as goose biscuit pellets.”

  We join the wedding party, and as the photographer snaps the first shot, I slide my arm around her waist.

  It fits perfectly on the curve of her hips. So perfectly I don’t want to let go.

  At all.

  Not one bit.

  And the wrecking ball of obvious slams into my gut.

  I am insanely attracted to my best friend’s little sister.

  But the corollary to that is that absolutely nothing is going to come of it.

  I’m okay with that.

  I’m okay with that.

  I swear I’m okay with it.

  7

  Crosby

  I’m heading to the reception when a voice booms from around the corner. “Number twenty-two. A word.”

  That’s all I get before a jacket covers my head, arms wrap around my torso, and my world turns dark.

  I’m jerked into what’s presumably a conference room in the hotel, but the lights stay off and the cover stays on, even after I’m led to a chair to sit in. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The question comes out like a drill sergeant is speaking, but I know the voice. That’s Holden, who plays for the city’s other team. Known this guy for a couple years, and though he was only introduced to the rest of our crew since moving up here to San Francisco to join the rival team in the city – the so-called enemies – he’s fit right in. He’s an insane workout partner, since he’s so damn regimented. On the field, he takes no prisoners at the plate, and he tells it like it is to the press. To me too. “You’re playing with fire, twenty-two,” Holden rumbles.

  Another voice cuts in, calm, affable. The steady rudder of the Cougars.

  “Let’s give the man a chance to explain himself,” Grant puts in, the easygoing one among the pair. “There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all that flirting. Like maybe Crosby’s been enlisted to teach a course for friends who are in time-out but want to flirt. Right, Crosby? Isn’t that right?”

  Grant is the Cougars’ catcher. The guy all the pitchers rely on behind the plate, the one who’s always looking on the bright side. Every glass is half full for Grant, even when he’s dripping with sarcasm. Like now.

  “As a matter of fact, you do have some of it right. Friends being the operative word,” I say.

  “You think we believe that? You’re a regular Colbert,” Holden says.

  “It’s the truth,” I say with a casual shrug, leaning back in my chair like this is no big deal, my head covered with one of their jackets, subject to this Dude-quisition.

  But I do need to convince them that they’ve got this upside down.

  Because they do.

  They’re reading Nadia and me all wrong. They think my harmless flirting with her is something to worry about.

  When it’s not.

  It’s going to keep being harmless. No matter how good she smells.

  Those flashbacks during the ceremony? To how hot she looked for prom? That was merely the male brain processing a few sexy images it found in the drawers of memory.

  I’ve sorted them out and tucked the pics back into Friendship Town after my brief pit stop in Fantasy Arena. And I want the guys to know. We rely on each other, look out for each other. I have their backs when they need me, and they have mine, so I say, “C’mon. I’m dead serious on this one. I didn’t slip. I’m making it to the start of the season with a clean record. I’ve been reporting in for the last two weeks to you guys, and I’m reporting in today.” I take a beat, then punctuate each word. “I’ve. Been. Good.”

  “You better be,” Grant adds. “Because I don’t want to have to take myself out of commission just to keep you on the up-and-up.”

  “There is no need for that kind of solidarity,” I say. “But I do appreciate your willingness to lock it up.”

  “How hard would that be, Grant?” Holden challenges.

  “Soooo hard. But I’d do it to support a teammate who’s tempted by trouble,” Grant adds.

  I roll my eyes from under the fabric. There will be no trouble with Nadia. I’ve merely buddied up with a buddy. “Nadia is a longtime friend and only that.”

  “So you know her name,” Holden says, like a detective in a hard-boiled novel.

  I toss my hands up in the air, cracking up. “Yeah, fuck biscuit. You know her name too. We all d
o. She’s Eric’s sister. And nothing is going to happen.”

  Grant hums. Holden growls.

  “All right. Let’s give him the benny of the doubt,” Grant says, the first of the pair to relent, naturally.

  “Fine, but I’m watching you,” Holden barks.

  “We’re both watching out for our guy,” Grant says as they let go of the jacket, tugging it off my head. “That’s our job. But he’s passed the test.”

  My eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dark even in the middle of the day. Holden is the jacketless one. I swipe my hands over my arms as if I’m wiping off dirt or lint from him.

  “Had a feeling that was yours,” I say, my nose crinkling in-over-the top disgust. “That jacket smelled like Drakkar Noir. You probably doused yourself in it 1980s-style and came here to scam on women.”

  “Scam?” Holden asks, narrowing his eyes, then shaking a finger in my direction. “Do not even try to turn this around. I am allowed to scam. You are not. You made an unbreakable promise to Eric and Gabe, then they enlisted us to have your back,” Holden adds, gesturing between him and Grant.

  Grant claps me on the shoulder, shooting a smile in my direction. “You can do this, buddy.” He drops his voice. “Just don’t make me regret supporting you.”

  “You can clean out my locker and steal all my clothes if I cave.”

  Grant taps his chin, his eyes going wide with delight, from the look of the twinkle in his baby blues. “That would be hella amusing, but I think we’d rather you admit on national TV that we’re both better than you at the best sport ever.”

  “Yes. That. I want that, twenty-two,” Holden says, too gleeful for my taste. Especially since he’s on our rival team.

  I wave the white flag. “Fine. You’ve got it. I’ll admit that on TV if I fall, but I won’t fall. I’ve got this. And the tuxes are on me, dickwads. As a thank you for your service.”

  “Wow. You’re so generous. All I’ve ever wanted is a free tux,” Holden says, flinging a hand to his heart.

  I flip him the bird as I hop up from the chair. “News flash. I’ve gone two weeks avoiding the sock thief and amateur photogs of my past. I’ve got this, just like I’ve got the hanging curveballs,” I say, since those are my favorite pitches to go long on.