Feeling emboldened, I reach a hand around and I squeeze his butt one more time. “Same here, but I do like both.”
His grin is all kinds of crooked.
I can’t resist. Leaning in, I drop a quick kiss onto his lips, then spin around. I slide the key card across the reader, open the door, and head inside. But before the door shuts, I pop my head back out, needing the reassurance. “We’re still friends, right?”
He rolls his eyes like that’s the craziest thing anyone has ever said. He reaches for my cheek, sliding a thumb across my jaw. “We’re absolutely friends, even though I would very much like to kiss you deliberately again.”
My heart hammers.
My body pulses.
Oh yes, I want all the deliberate kisses.
Everywhere.
And I’m pretty sure that’s what’s called friends with benefits. Because I’m the kind of woman who says what’s on her mind, who likes clarity, I do just that. “That was a friends-with-benefits kind of a kiss, right?”
“And it was a very good benefit of our friendship, wouldn’t you say?”
I can’t stop smiling. “I would definitely say so.”
This time I wave goodbye for real, shut the door, sigh ever so happily, lean my head back against the wall, and close my eyes.
I just kissed the best man.
And it was spectacular.
12
Nadia
Flopping down onto the soft couch, one arm hanging off the side, I can’t stop grinning.
It’s just not possible. This smile can’t be erased.
Running my finger across my lower lip, I let the reel play before my eyes once more.
The way he swept his thumb over my jaw, held my face, explored my lips.
With a contented sigh, I savor the aftereffects of the knee-weakening kiss with the man I’ve crushed on since I was a teenager.
My skin tingles, and as I close my eyes, the movie screen shows me A Kiss with Crosby over and over.
It’s a fantastic double feature.
Morning sun streaks through the window. A heavy breath pulls from my chest. A yawn tugs at my mouth as I rouse.
A slow glance down reveals I fell asleep in my dress. Must have kicked off my shoes, but otherwise I’m still in bridesmaid couture.
Dragging myself up from the couch, I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and shimmy out of my dress. I return to the suite, tug a T-shirt from my overnight bag, and find my phone on the table.
I call Scarlett on FaceTime. Her eyes widen the second she sees me. “Someone slept with her makeup on and her hair still done up bridesmaid-style,” she says, an I know what you did last night grin lighting up her face.
I feign innocence. “And yet I still look fabulous, right?”
“Yes, you look like you were fucked fabulously,” she says, mincing no words.
“Is it a good look?” I ask playfully, patting my day-after do. It’s a wild mess, hair sticking up everywhere.
“Cover-worthy of a Joy Delivered catalog. That fantastic.” Scarlett waves a hand airily as she strolls along the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the sixth arrondissement, its gorgeous spires reaching just out of sight of the phone camera. “Now give me the bang report. It’s time. You’re wearing all the evidence. Look at your hair, woman. It’s a wild mess.” She peers at the screen, as if hunting for someone else behind me. “Where is he?”
Laughing, I fling myself onto the couch. “We did not bang. Neither dick banging nor finger banging,” I say, since I can definitely go full filth with my girlfriends. But girl talk is cone-of-silence-level vault.
“Tongue banging?” she asks, a hopeful pitch in her voice.
A daring tremble runs through me at the prospect of Crosby’s tongue exploring me all over.
But now’s not the time to daydream about his downtown skills.
Though I want to. Oh hell, do I want to. I may be a virgin, but my imagination is very sexually active.
“We kissed, and it was fantastic,” I say in a wild, wondrous confession. “And kissing as in first base.”
She blinks several times. “Whoa. I was sort of joking. But sort of not. You really did kiss your wedding date? The one you were just going to go with as friends?”
“Yes,” I say, humming as I knit my brow. “Should I feel bad?”
A smidge of guilt wedges into my chest. We were supposed to be buddies. Just friends.
I violated our friendship pact.
“Was it a bad kiss?”
My jaw drops. “Wash your mouth out with soap. It was amazing. Like Paris-lit-up-at-Christmastime amazing. Like kisses-under-the-streetlamp-along-the-Seine amazing,” I say, using terms near and dear to my friend.
She brings her hand to her heart. “So it was the perfect kiss?”
“Exactly,” I say, then I share more details of the night—the talking, the teasing, the dancing. The dick pic I never saw, the nip slip that didn’t happen, our accidental jokes.
Still, was it a terrible mistake to kick things up to the kiss level?
But we didn’t let the genie out of the bottle.
The genie is still in the lamp, I’m sure.
“The kiss was quite intentional though?” Scarlett asks, as if needing to confirm it.
“It was.”
She sighs. “Interesting.”
I sit up, skin prickling, spidey-senses on alert. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you went from going as friends to ending the night with a kiss. That’s interesting.” She stops at a street corner, the sound of a bus rumbling along the boulevard landing on my ears.
“Interesting good, or interesting bad?” Nerves speckle my voice. My anxiety resurfaces. Did I mess things up? “Should I be worried about something?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “No. At least I don’t think so. But how did you end things with him?”
My heart beats faster with worry. Like I did something wrong by tiptoeing across that line. Maybe we both did. “I’m seeing him later this week because he’s going to be my plus-one at the Sports Network Awards. Why do you sound like you’re worried about me? Should I be worried?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not, my friend. You’re a badass woman. An adult. A formidable force of nature and the toughest owner in the NFL.” She draws a deep breath as she crosses the street. “But you also entertained a spectacular kiss with a man you want last night.”
“Right, but we agreed to be friends with benefits. We were both on the same page. Besides, he has spring training in a little more than a week, so he’ll be gone. It’s not like there’s even a chance for this to continue,” I say, telling her and reminding myself. Sure, we crossed the line, but we both agreed to, both wanted to, and both know we can handle it. “We’re simply going to two events together, and if something happens, fine. But it’s not like we made any plans to kiss again per se.”
Though as I give that voice, the words sound odd—like I’m convincing myself.
“Ah, it’s the friends-with-benefits plan. That ought to be quite uncomplicated,” she says, nodding as she marches past a chocolate shop.
The sight of it makes my mouth water, even as her dry words make my stomach churn. “You think I’m being foolish?”
She laughs gently. “I don’t think you’re being foolish,” she says, taking her time, speaking slowly. “But I also think you should be realistic about what this is. Friends with benefits is risky—both to the benefits and the friendship. Even with the expiration date.”
I sit up straighter, absorbing her words. “Of course,” I say, drawing on my stores of confidence, my internal strength. “I know that. I’ll remember it. I swear. And the expiration date just makes sense.”
“Good. You always remember your first,” she says.
I blink. “I’m not thinking about sleeping with him.”
Scarlett laughs, arching a dubious brow. “Did you hear how high-pitched your voice just went?”
“Because I wanted
you to know how I feel.”
“Yes, how do you feel after kissing him?”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re trying to trick me.”
She laughs, but it’s a reassuring sound. “Fine, maybe you’re not thinking about it, but I’m thinking about it for you. And I just want you to think things through. Just know the score, Nadia. And go in prepared for . . . anything.”
“I will. I promise,” I say, both to her and to myself, and try not to think of first times with Crosby.
We talk more, and she catches me up on life in Paris with the dashing and charming Englishman she fell in love with recently.
“Things are fantastic with Daniel,” she says. “Since we finished our acquisition of the boutique hotels, we celebrated by going to Amsterdam for the weekend and indulged in dancing, food, and all sorts of decadence.”
“Happy sigh,” I say, as she entertains me with more tales of her European life and love. They checked out the castles, took a boat tour, and savored every second together.
It all sounds too good to be true, except it’s real and she worked hard for her happily ever after. Plus, given how her first husband julienned her heart, she deserves it.
I believe that good people do deserve love.
Scarlett is one of the best people I know, and she’s found true love.
Like my parents had.
Like Brooke has with her husband.
Like Eric seems to have with Mariana.
I love that kind of love. I want that kind . . . someday. The forever kind. The true kind.
But not now. I have too much on my plate, and Crosby isn’t keen on dating, so there’s no reason why two old friends who’ve known each other for a long time shouldn’t enjoy the benefits of our friendship.
I say goodbye to Scarlett, determined to be prepared for anything that comes my way.
That’s all I have to do when I see Crosby again. Just be prepared.
I head to the bathroom to take a shower, checking my phone one last time before I get in. A text from Crosby blinks at me.
Crosby: Just so you know, I slept hard last night. It was an accidental sleep. But it was the best accidental sleep I’ve ever had. In fact, I think last night was full of all sorts of terrific accidents that should be repeated.
I practically squeeze the phone against my chest, shimmy my shoulders, and fox-trot across the tiles before I reply.
Nadia: Is “repeat” a dirty word?
Crosby: Maybe it is. We’ll find out. PS: feel free to send me any pics of what you’re going to wear to the event. You know, for my corsage shopping. Think I’m going to get you a new one.
Nadia: When I decide, I’ll snap a pic.
Crosby: Can’t wait.
I can’t either.
I’m giddy and electrified the rest of the day. I return home to finish organizing my new place, including sorting out my little darlings—though some are quite large, big darlings sounds so gauche. Setting down a satiny piece of fabric in my nightstand drawer, I arrange my favorites, then charge some others in the bathroom.
Another mantra of mine—there’s no excuse for an uncharged vibrator.
I learned that lesson the hard way one night when I was craving some time with my favorite dolphin.
He sputtered, petered out, and then went dead.
Never again, I said.
That night, the dolphin rises to the occasion.
Oh yes, he does.
And I’m giddy all over again, and in a much naughtier way.
But the next morning, I’m all business.
As I head into the executive offices in the Hawks stadium on the edge of the city, I sweep Crosby from my mind.
It’s business time.
I’ve got my purse, my ovaries of steel, my ultimate poker face, and my don’t be afraid to speak up mantra.
That serves me well as I meet with my CEO, general counsel, director of college recruiting, and others. They all relocated here from Vegas, but our general manager did not. In the conference room, I set the agenda and expectations for the year ahead, including hiring a new GM—the most important position when it comes to player contracts and hirings and firings.
Then I add as we wrap up, “There’s only one thing to do going forward. The Super Bowl was played earlier this month. The fact that we weren’t there is all that matters. Next year I want this team to be flying to Miami to win back the Lombardi Trophy,” I tell them.
Once the rest of the execs leave the conference room, my right-hand man, Matthew Harris, leans back in his leather chair, looking like a cat who charmed all the pussycats.
With a do-tell grin, I meet his stare, both of us waiting for the other to break first. It’s our thing. He’s not only the team CEO; he’s also a great friend, and the rare Brit who prefers football played on a gridiron. American football.
I drop my chin in my hand and study him, waiting, waiting.
He whistles, then huffs. “Fine, you win.”
I make a rolling gesture with my hand. “Spill. What’s the tea, as the kids say these days?”
“I might have a solution to the GM situation. I’ve got some leads on a GM. Some nontraditional candidates.”
Color me intrigued. “Keep talking.”
With a satisfied glint in his green eyes, he says, “Word on the street is there’s a certain woman who rose through the ranks in Dallas and might fancy a post here.”
I sit up straight, excitement tripping through me. “Kim Lee?”
“The one and only.”
“She’s one of the highest-ranking female executives in the NFL. Hiring her as GM would be a huge coup. Plus, she’s brilliant.”
“Bloody brilliant, some might say.”
“Yes. Get her,” I say, then press my palms together. “Pretty please.”
“I’ll make a call. She’d be fantastic.”
“I’d tell you you’re my favorite person here, but . . .”
He scoffs, like that’s old hat. “I know that already. You tell me that all the time.”
“It’s true, plus you require compliments,” I say.
Dragging a hand through his dark-blond hair, he smiles in admission. “I do indeed. The lifeblood of anyone who is a sports exec is a thick skin and an obsessive devotion to praise,” he quips, adjusting his tie. The man is the definition of dapper—he wears three-piece suits every day to work, and the vest look is just so spiffy.
“Speaking of compliments, want to order some lunch and work on our plan for Kim?”
“As if I’d want to do anything else.”
We order in, devising a strategy, and the focus energizes me. Matthew too, it seems, which makes me happy, since he moved here even though the woman he was dating in Vegas didn’t want him to. “How’s everything with Phoebe?” I ask.
He heaves a sigh. “Good? Sort of? I think.”
I frown. “What’s wrong, friend? Is she having a hard time with you being here?”
“Seems she is. Every day we talk, she makes sure to let me know how displeased she is,” he says, then shrugs, chasing it with a sigh.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, a smidge of guilt wiggling around in me. “I feel responsible.”
“Don’t be sorry. I chose to move. Plus, you should be with someone who supports your career rather than holds it back.” He takes a beat, his lips curving into a grin. “Isn’t that what I told you last year when you went through your parade of horrid men?”
“Sons of mailboxes,” I say with a smile, thinking of Crosby’s saying.
Matthew furrows his brow. “Please tell me that’s not a new American saying I need to learn? I’ve barely come to terms with ‘balling,’ ‘chilling,’ and ‘slay.’”
“It’s something Crosby said to refer to the men in Vegas.”
He arches a brow. “Crosby Cash? The baseball player?”
“Yes. We went to my brother’s wedding together.”
“Oh, did you now?” His eyebrows shoot into his hairline.
&nb
sp; “We’re friends,” I say, but I try to rein in the grin that comes with that.
“Right. Sure.”
“I swear,” I say, though the kiss didn’t feel friendly at all. “And we’re going to the awards gala this week.”
“Interesting,” he says, all catlike once again. “Very interesting.”
I wag a finger. “Don’t get any ideas about us.”
But truth be told, all the ideas about Crosby are mine.
Delicious, tempting ideas.
Ideas I want to act on.
Good thing I have a busy day with Matthew, rolling up our sleeves and making a plan for the next season.
At the end of the day, I’m kicking ass and taking names.
I don’t go home till well past ten, after a dinner with the city managers, where I lay the groundwork for expansion plans for the stadium.
Home at eleven, I strip out of my clothes, remove my ring and watch, sink into the tub, and relax.
I’ve got this.
I can be Nadia Harlowe, my father’s daughter by day, and Crosby’s plus-one by night.
13
Crosby
Send the runner home.
That’s the goal.
I curl a hand over Jacob’s shoulder as he digs a cleat into third base.
The batter at home plate takes a couple practice swings. “If he connects, you just go. Got it? Game is on the line.”
Jacob gives me a crisp, eager nod. “Got it, Coach Cash.”
I laugh. “Crosby. Just Crosby.”
Jacob flashes a smile at me. “Coach Cash.”
Across the diamond, Grant mans the first base, while our closing pitcher Chance waits by the dugout, watching the action in the final out in the final inning.
It’s pitcher versus batter, mano a mano. The fierce and mighty fourth grader goes into his windup and unleashes a wicked fastball, sending it right across the plate. The ten-year-old batter connects on the first swing, launching a screaming line drive.
The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) Page 9
