The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  I wince a bit, not entirely sure why that gnaws at me—future hubs. “Sure,” I say. “He can just deflower me on our wedding night,” I say, making a big old joke about whoever the future hubs might be because that’s easier than dealing with this nagging sensation. Instead, I turn more serious. “But yes, I do want, someday, what my parents had. Not now, but down the road. I want what your parents had. What Brooke and Eric have.” I draw a breath, letting it fill me. “Right now though? I have my work cut out for me with the team, so I like this thing you and I have. And I don’t want to keep having sex with myself anymore,” I say, our eyes locking with want flaring between us, like a shimmering heat mirage.

  “Like I said, rule number three is very hard to resist tonight. But I can wait for you. I want to wait,” he says, his dark-blue eyes locked with mine, and I can’t look away. I don’t want to, because the way he says want to wait makes my heart catch in my throat. Another odd feeling I should truly ignore. Too bad it feels so good.

  I take another drink, turning the tables on him, since these boomeranging emotions in me are a ping-pong game I don’t want to play. “And you? What’s your story? You seem drawn to dating. Not like you’re a player, but more like you enjoy having girlfriends. Fair to say?”

  Nodding thoughtfully, he lifts his beer, drinks more of it, then sets down the glass. “I suppose I’m the same as you, Nadia. I’d like what my parents had. Hell, what my mom has now with Kana.”

  My chest warms, my heart feeling glow-y from that lovely sentiment, one you don’t hear as often as you’d like, from women or from men. “Most people are afraid to admit they want that—love, connection, intimacy. I like that you just put it out there. In general. I like that you’re saying it in general,” I add quickly, since I don’t want him to worry that I have ulterior motives. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get all clingy. I understand the rules. We stay friends. Rule number two,” I add, like I’m proud of myself for recalling the laws we laid down.

  He gives me a reassuring smile. “I wasn’t worried. At all,” he says, lifting a hand to squeeze my shoulder. A sort of friendly squeeze.

  Hmm.

  Is it weird that I want a non-friendly squeeze right now?

  But I keep going, glad he’s on the same page. Truly, it’s good that he’s not worried. I do want to stay friends after we work our way through the Virgin Rule Book. I absolutely want to remain buddies. I shake away any wayward notions that extend beyond friendship.

  This plus-one plan is fantastic. Besides, I’m lucky to be friends with someone who’s so easygoing and so open at the same time. And someone who’s so . . . bangable.

  “It’s kind of heartwarming when anyone admits they want what we all truly want,” I say.

  Smiling in acknowledgment, he knocks back some of his beer. “I hear ya. I blame it on my mom. She was all about being in touch with your emotions. ‘Don’t be afraid of your feelings. A real man can admit when he’s fallen,’” he says, imitating his mother.

  “Funny, you sound just like her.”

  “I suppose I’m glad she’s like that. Trouble is, I’m not so good at following her advice.”

  My brow creases. “What do you mean?”

  He exhales heavily, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “My dating woes? All those ex-girlfriend stories? They’re all my fault.”

  “Why do you say that? You just . . .” I trail off though, unsure how to finish the thought fairly. Pick the wrong women? I don’t need to say that—he knows it.

  “Choose the wrong women?” he supplies.

  “You said it,” I say, laughing.

  “It’s my Achilles’ heel. Grant and my cousin are right when they say I don’t take my time getting to know a woman before I let her in. They say I trust too soon. That’s true, and it’s all on me.” He holds up his right hand like he’s taking an oath in court. “Swear on it. Like I told your brother. I happen to have horrible taste. I’m kind of drawn to bad girls.”

  My stomach dips with worry.

  He reaches out a hand, clasping mine. “I was drawn to bad girls. Present company excluded.”

  “I have nothing against bad girls, but I don’t think I’m one,” I say, perhaps a little apologetically.

  He squeezes my hand harder. “You’re not a bad girl, and I’m wildly attracted to you. Maybe my taste is changing.”

  I hope it is. “Perhaps,” I say noncommittally, not sure what else to say.

  “Or maybe I’ve always had a thing for you,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe you’re the only good girl I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  He runs a finger over the top of my hand, making my skin heat up.

  “Feels good right now,” he says. “And this thing between us is good. We already know each other.”

  “We do,” I echo, and as if to prove it, the conversation sails away on its own while we catch the end of the hockey game, complaining about some calls, cheering about others, debating who’s going to win as we finish our drinks and then make our way out of the bar after saying goodbye to Sierra.

  Crosby takes me home, gets out of the limo, and walks me to the front door of my building. He stops before I unlock it, dipping his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.

  It’s the what’s next moment. Nerves thrum through me.

  “So,” he begins. “We have the golf thing this weekend. Before I jet off to Arizona.”

  “Cactus league time,” I say, using the insider lingo, the term for baseball teams who do their spring training in Arizona.

  “I’m leaving on Monday,” he says.

  I try not to dwell on him leaving. Who cares that he’s leaving after all? He’s coming back. Spring training doesn’t last forever. Nor does friends-with-benefits, so there’s no need to be all moony.

  “But there’s plenty of days on the calendar before then,” he adds, and it comes out like an invitation, a little flirty.

  “So very true,” I say, waiting, hoping he wants the same thing.

  He inches closer, dips his face to my neck, and breathes me in. I tremble as his nose runs along my neck, traveling up to my ear, where he nibbles ever so gently on my earlobe then pulls back. “I don’t want to wait till the golf thing to see you again.”

  My heart tap-dances across a Broadway stage. “I don’t either.”

  He murmurs as he brushes decadent kisses along my skin. “Invite me over tomorrow night, Nadia.”

  My body is throwing an I’m ready parade. “Come over tomorrow,” I say.

  He separates from me, his gaze roaming over my figure one last time. “I’ll bring dinner.”

  “I’ll bring an appetite,” I say.

  “I’ll see you at eight, then, Wild Woman.”

  He returns to his limo and drives away, having bestowed a new nickname on me.

  Am I a wild woman?

  Maybe we’ll find out.

  I can’t wait for tomorrow. Though, as I head inside, I’m also missing having him here tonight.

  A lot.

  21

  Nadia

  Brooke bats first, with a text message flashing like a neon sign as I apply makeup the next morning.

  Brooke: Called it. Lovebirds. Like I said at the wedding.

  What is she talking about?

  As the new album from my favorite singer ever—Stone Zenith—blasts through my bathroom, I set down my mascara wand and click open the photo Brooke sent.

  My chest flutters. My lips form a stupid grin.

  “The Guy in the Picture” fills the bathroom, the love song echoing across the tiled walls as I stare at a shot of Crosby and me from the red carpet posted on the Sports Network Instagram feed.

  I zoom in on the image, and a barrage of questions slams into me.

  Was his hand really wrapped possessively around my waist like that?

  Were his eyes staring at me like I’m the only woman for him?

  Was his gr
in telegraphing how much he wanted to follow rule number one? To sleep with me?

  My stomach sashays, then does a rumba. Maybe a samba too. Hell, it could be taking a Zumba class for all I know.

  This photo is a damning piece of evidence that shows two people who are into each other. Really into each other.

  Because I’m looking at him like he’s the only one I want with me.

  Last night, tonight, any night.

  My heart beats faster and music floods my ears as Stone reaches the chorus.

  The song takes over my senses, lodges itself into my heart and mind.

  Something is happening between Crosby and me.

  Something that’s more than friendship.

  And I don’t know what to do about it.

  I’ve tried to deny it.

  I’ve played the logic card.

  But logic has slipped away, and emotions are dealing the deck now.

  That man just does something to me.

  Something that’s not only physical.

  That’s why I want to see him tonight, why I want to have sex with him. Not because I’m horny, not because I’m friends with him, not because I’m attracted to him.

  I’m attracted to him because I like him.

  The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor with a bang.

  With a loud sigh, I stumble back, grab hold of the wall, and proceed to freak the hell out.

  For about ten seconds. Then I get my act together, pick up my phone, turn down the music, and dial Scarlett.

  “Emergency,” I say the second she answers.

  “What is it?”

  “This,” I say, then send her the image. “Check your texts.”

  A few seconds later, she says, “Ohhhh. That looks complicated.”

  “I know,” I say, pacing to the tub, sitting on the edge, and dropping my head in my hand. “I think something is brewing . . . No, that’s wrong,” I say, quickly correcting myself.

  I lift my face, inhale deeply, and lean on the boardroom side of me. The woman who speaks up.

  “I don’t think—I know. I like him so very much.”

  The admission is both a relief and a brand-new burden.

  Scarlett’s words and tone are kind. “So, what are you going to do about this friends-with-benefits thing, then?”

  It’s a great question. As I picture tonight, him coming over, us connecting, I can’t see a path to resistance. Not one I want to take. Once more, I go with the full truth. “I suppose I’m going to sleep with him, and deal with whether it’ll hurt my heart later.”

  I can hear a sympathetic smile on her face when she says, “At least you have your eyes wide open.”

  I suppose I do.

  I say goodbye as a new text lands on my phone.

  Mom: Looks like you had a great time last night.

  Nadia: I did. I absolutely did.

  Mom: Is that someday coming soon?

  I close my texts, because how can I answer whether the someday of us dating—the someday she envisions—is coming?

  I have no idea.

  I finish getting dressed, then head to a nearby café for breakfast with Declan, where we catch up about life and love in New York.

  “So, what’s the latest? Any new, hot, brainy men in your life who rock your world?” I ask as I lift my cinnamon latte and waggle a brow.

  He shakes his head. “I’ve kind of been taking a break.”

  That surprises me. He’s always seemed like such a serial monogamist. “A break? Like, from dating in general?”

  “Yep. Last time I even saw someone was more than a year ago.”

  I can’t not ask. “Is there a reason for the break?”

  “Just trying to make some changes in my life.”

  Well, now I really have to know. “Good changes?”

  “Let’s just say if I was a superstitious guy I’d be wearing lucky socks,” he says with a hopeful glint in his expression.

  I laugh. “Funny, I know someone just like that.” I take a beat, study my friend, try to read his eyes, and see what’s going on behind them. “So these hypothetical lucky socks. Would you be wearing them, if you were wearing them, in the hopes of finding that someone special?”

  He smiles. “You’re getting warmer.”

  And I think I know why. “Wasn’t there once someone special?” I ask. I had the sense once upon a time that he’d fallen hard for someone. He’d never shared the details though, and I hadn’t pried. Maybe that’s the reason he’s taking a break?

  “Yes.” His answer is emphatic. For a moment he seems lost in time, then he returns to the here and now. “Someone very special. Maybe he will be again.”

  A smile takes over my face. “There’s nothing quite like finding your someone special, is there?”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” He lifts his coffee, takes a drink, then asks thoughtfully. “And you?”

  “I haven’t had anyone special before.”

  “And do you now?”

  A grin dances across my lips. “Maybe,” I say into the latte.

  “Elaborate,” he instructs.

  I don’t give him the sordid details. I don’t divulge name, batting average, or uniform number. Declan’s a ballplayer too, but even if he weren’t, I wouldn’t serve up the personal intel.

  But I give him enough.

  “I hope he’s your someone special,” he says as he knocks back the rest of his coffee.

  “We’ll see,” I say, trying to hide the smile that won’t go away.

  After breakfast, I head to the stadium and bury myself in work. Matthew and I interview the fantastic woman named Kim who’s been an assistant GM for two other teams. She’s sharp, smart, and confident, and she knows her way around arbitration, analytics, and scouting.

  The three of us talk for two hours, and during that span of one hundred twenty minutes, I don’t think about tonight at all.

  It’s a wonderful slice of time.

  It reminds me that I can do my job. I can do what I came here to do.

  Sure, even if I get my emotions bruised, even if my heart is knocked around, I’ll be fine.

  I’ll come out on the other side of friends-with-benefits unscathed.

  Surely I will.

  When I say goodbye to Kim and let her know we’ll be in touch soon, Matthew and I conduct a postmortem.

  “She’s great. We should offer her more than you make,” I say, teasing.

  But he flashes a warm smile and nods. “If that’s what it takes, do it.”

  I scoff. “Matthew, I’m joking.”

  “I’m not,” he says, intense, serious. “I’m not sitting around counting who makes more money. Or who has the bigger post. I just want what’s best for the team.”

  I sigh happily. “I would like to clone you for literally every job I ever need to fill.”

  “I’d like to clone myself sometime. Can I send one of my clones out to eat cake and pie all day long, while I stay fit and trim?”

  “I want one of those clones too,” I say with a laugh.

  “In any case, we’ve got a few more candidates for the job, but we should make sure we know exactly what Kim wants. And then offer it to her.”

  “It’s like we share a brain.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Sometimes. But, call me crazy, I think it’s for the best that we can’t read each other’s mind.”

  With a laugh, I agree. “Truer words.”

  I’m glad no one else has access to my thoughts when I check my phone a little later.

  Anticipation zips through me when I see Crosby’s name on the screen.

  Just flies through my body, lighting me up.

  Crosby: Don’t know about you, but I’ve spent the morning getting harassed about that pic Leo took of us. I mean, in the harassers’ defense, I do look like I want to devour you. So fair’s fair. I want to, and I plan to, and I will be doing just that tonight. Before then, I need to know—do you want pasta, Thai, or a grain bowl from Mom’s café ton
ight?

  Leaning back in my chair, I grin like a fool as lust roars through me.

  This man turns me on and makes me laugh.

  That’s the problem.

  I write back, asking for the grain bowl. At least that much is easy.

  22

  Crosby

  I toss the question to my priest. “Am I supposed to confess?”

  Raj taps his chin, his brow furrowing as I work through the insane number of crunches he ordered me to do.

  “In situations like this, I ask myself, ‘What would Kenneth do?’”

  “Who?” I ask as I twist my obliques.

  “Kenneth from Thirty Rock. He’s my point of reference for decision-making,” Raj says, crouching next to me at the gym.

  “Kenneth? The ultimate good guy? The sweet, innocent Kenneth who’s basically a proxy for Mister Rogers and Kermit the Frog?”

  Raj grins, his white teeth gleaming, as he nods. The former Bollywood stuntman is now a kick-ass personal trainer, and I was lucky enough to snag a spot on his client list. “Yep. And hey, those guys all knew how to make good choices.”

  “So you’re saying I should tell my buds I fell off the wagon?”

  Raj rolls his eyes, grabs his phone, and brandishes the shot from last night at me. “Do pictures lie, man? Switch to bicycle crunches stat.”

  “Everyone has shown that to me,” I say, taking my phone from the floor, opening it, and shoving it at him before I shift to the new exercise. “Open my messages.”

  He clicks on them, then cracks up, his hand flying to his belly. “Dude.”

  “I know,” I say, rolling my eyes as I twist my elbow to my opposite knee, then the other, and so on.

  Raj clears his throat, reading out loud. “From Grant at nine thirty: Dude. I know she didn’t steal your socks, your ring, or your car, but have you no self-control? From Chance at nine forty-five: Dude. Busted. From Holden at ten fifteen: Dude. Guess who’s admitting on TV that we’re better at the world’s greatest sport?”