The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  She jumps in, picking up the thread like we’re solving a business problem. “You’re right. We planned to buddy up, and instead we fell into bed.”

  “We’re supposed to try being friends. Try for real. Not get all wrapped up in each other.”

  “Exactly,” she says, agreeing, her brown eyes intense, how I suspect she is at work. “We can’t just get together that quickly. That’s not how relationships work.”

  “We need to do this the smart way. The measured way. We need to be patient.”

  She lifts her mug, taking a long drink of her coffee, like she’s giving herself time to analyze the problem. When she sets down her cup, her brows are knit, her words slow and serious, almost cautious. “Did we just agree to be friends?”

  I look down at her hand, still joined with mine, and then let go. Friends don’t hold hands like they’re crazy for each other. Friends eat breakfast and go their separate ways. They don’t text each other later in the day, and they don’t ask when they’ll see each other again.

  My heart pinches like a rope is tied around it, tightening it.

  I don’t want to be just friends.

  I don’t want to level down with Nadia Harlowe.

  And I sure as shit don’t want to be less than lovers with her.

  But being friends without benefits feels like the first responsible decision I’ve made about this woman in weeks.

  It’s what I need to do.

  “I leave on Monday for spring training. I’m going early this year to get in some extra workouts when pitchers and catchers report. Then I’m gone for a little over a month anyway.” I can’t quite fathom how I’m willingly ending something that has barely begun. But I have to do this. I have to know I’m not nuclear any longer.

  I force myself to think with my head rather than the pathetic organ in my chest that wants to smother her with kisses, hide out with her in bed the rest of the day, and never let her go.

  Brain, you’re at bat.

  Just take a fucking swing.

  “And while I’m in training, since we can’t be together,” I continue, doing my damnedest to be rational, “maybe we use the time to be apart. To take it slow and measured. To be patient.” I swallow roughly. “We can go to the golf event tomorrow as friends,” I offer, like I’m dying to go platonic with her.

  Being just friends only sounds like a forking awful consolation prize, but it’s the opposite of my past mistakes, and that’s what I need to do.

  “Sure,” Nadia says, a little uncertain. But she takes a shuddery breath and seems more resolved. “It’s what we were supposed to do anyway. Besides, I need to focus on finding a new GM, and all my plans for the team. There’s no lack of work for me to do,” she says, crisp and professional.

  In a similar tone, I say, “Then we’ll see how things are after spring training. After we’ve done the friendship thing for real.” I sound much more decisive than I feel. “We’ll wait for our pitch. That’ll be our new rule. Rule number six.”

  She gives me a faint smile, drains her coffee, then nods like it’s all settled. “Friends.”

  “For now,” I agree. We’re not calling it relationship-quits forever. We’re just sensibly slowing down.

  So why do I feel like we just broke up?

  28

  Nadia

  My niece, Audrey, brandishes a paperback in each hand, waggling one then the other.

  “Girl spy or girl warrior?” she asks, debating her purchase as we peruse the shelves at An Open Book.

  I screw up my lips, tapping my finger on my chin, studying each cover. “That’s a good question. But with books, you truly can have it all. I vote for both,” I declare.

  She nods resolutely, her black ponytail bouncing. “You’re right. I’ll ask my dad to buy me both.”

  This is one of my favorite bookstores in the city, perched at the edge of the Marina, a soaring view of the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. I scan the titles and tip a copy of a sports biography into my hand. “While you’re at it, maybe add this one. Girl athletes are cool.”

  She takes it with eager hands, reads the back jacket, then glances up at me with inquisitive eyes. “Will you ever have a girl athlete on your team?”

  “There have been some female kickers. You never know. We might have one in the NFL someday. But you want to hear something cool?”

  “I do.”

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “I think I might hire a female general manager.”

  “You’re so cool, Aunt Nadia.” She spins on her heel and rushes off to find her father in the travel section, thrusting the books at him.

  An elbow nudges my side. “Did I just hear you say you’re hiring a female GM?”

  I turn to my sister, Brooke, who’s joined me in the kids’ section, some new thrillers tucked under her arm. “It’s looking that way. She’s the leading candidate.”

  “Dad worked hard to create equal opportunities and build a diverse workforce. He’d be proud of you for carrying that on.”

  “Thanks,” I say, a lump sticking in my throat. Emotions are riding me like I’m a surfboard today.

  Breaking up with a guy you weren’t technically dating is the worst.

  Especially when you’re falling hard for him.

  Brooke studies my face. “You don’t seem as happy about that as I’d expect. What’s going on?”

  That’s my sister, seeing right through me.

  “Nothing is going on,” I say with fake cheer.

  Cheer she bludgeons with one sharp snort. “Right. I don’t buy that. What’s the story with the man?”

  I sigh heavily, slumping against the Jenny Hans. “I wish there were a story.” My voice is tight, my chest heavy. But I’m not one to dwell, to go all “woe is me” over a man. Then again, I’ve never experienced a man like Crosby.

  Brooke sets her hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “What happened?”

  I’m not sure I want to open the wound again. This morning’s adulting session at the café felt necessary, but in the way a dental exam is. You need it, even if it hurts like hell when the hygienist gets that tooth scalpel thingie out and scrapes off any plaque, all while chatting cheerily about her day. “Nothing happened,” I say, though, really, a tooth scalpel thingie isn’t nothing.

  She grabs my arm. “Oh no, you don’t.”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to dismiss all these feelings I didn’t want to face when I returned to town. I simply wanted to be Take Charge Nadia. Boss Nadia. Nadia with her Leatherman that can open any door. My father’s daughter. I didn’t want to be Nadia with a soft, squishy heart that could be stepped on, smooshed, and stomped into a pulpy mess.

  “Is this about Crosby?” Brooke asks, a little too insightful. I shake my head, and she rolls her eyes. “You can’t fool me, buttercup. You two are in love. What’s going on?”

  Those words are a burst of sunlight in my chest. In love. She’s not wrong. But the timing is. It’s utterly and completely wrong.

  “Timing is a tooth scalpel,” I say.

  She arches a what the hell brow.

  “It can hurt like a son of a banshee, but sometimes the timing doesn’t work out.”

  “That’s just an excuse, Nadia.”

  My shoulders sag, and a kernel of sadness expands in my chest, the roots extending throughout my body.

  Am I upset with Crosby?

  Maybe I am.

  But maybe I shouldn’t be.

  He might have dealt the fatal blow to our benefits, but I agreed with him from the beginning to the middle to the end.

  His choice was smart.

  Logical.

  Right.

  I would have made the same one.

  I think.

  “Look, I tried the whole dating thing in Vegas.” I square my shoulders, digging into my metaphorical purse for my ovaries of steel. “It didn’t pan out. But that’s okay. The universe clearly wants me to be single and to focus on the team right now.”r />
  Brooke clears her throat, her eyes drifting pointedly to the front of the store. David is laughing with Audrey as they reach the counter and she plops down the three titles. He ruffles her black hair. She tosses her head back and laughs.

  “I’m in love, and I can focus on work,” Brooke points out.

  My heart lurches at her words then squeezes as David tosses Brooke an I love you grin.

  From all the way across the store.

  She throws one right back at him.

  It’s everything.

  Everything I’ve ever wanted.

  That kind of love. That kind of trust. A relationship that’s born from talking, falling, caring.

  Like my parents had.

  But I bet they didn’t start as friends with benefits.

  Relationships should start the right way, in a proper sequence and specific order. They shouldn’t begin with a request for a dick pic, then turn into an accidental kiss in a doorway, then morph into a virgin rule book for defining friends-with-benefits behavior.

  Ugh. I did everything upside down and backward.

  I should have known better.

  “But you and David met through a friend when you were working in China. You went on dates all over Beijing. You romanced each other. He proposed to you before you moved back to California. That’s how it should be,” I point out.

  Brooke shakes her head. “There is no rule for how good relationships start.”

  “There should be,” I say in a dead voice.

  “Do you truly believe that?”

  “I do.” But I don’t really know what I believe. All I know is that I miss Crosby, and I have a mountain of work to climb tonight.

  I join Brooke and her family for lunch, try to be decent company, then head for the office, where I blast my friend Stone’s latest single and get to work.

  This is why I’m here after all.

  Nothing more.

  29

  Crosby

  Holden tosses up the ball at home plate, swings, and connects with it, sending it down the third baseline.

  Jacob fields it perfectly for the hundredth time in a row.

  I clap his shoulder. “Dude, keep that up. You’ve got this.”

  The kid grins at me. “Can we go a few more times?”

  I cup my hands over my mouth and shout to Holden at home plate, “Give us a few more screamers!”

  My bud nods crisply and hits another ball down the third baseline.

  Jacob fields it again neatly.

  “You barely need me to tell you what to do,” I say, proud of this dude.

  He shoots me a dubious stare. “Maybe you forget how many line drives I missed at the start of the season?”

  “Are you saying my memory stinks?” I ask.

  “Maybe a little,” he ribs me back.

  We wrap up, and as we head off the field, the kid thanks us. “I’m glad you remembered enough that I could convince you to give me some extra practice.”

  “We’ve got you addicted now, is that right?” I ask.

  “I think so,” he says. “I can go again tomorrow.”

  “That’s the way to do it, man,” I say, clapping his shoulder. “Practice like it’s all you ever want to do. Right, Holden?”

  “That’s what it takes,” Holden adds sagely. “That’s what I did when I was your age. Practice, practice, practice. That’s what I still do.”

  “That’s the key to success,” I say. “Gotta put in the hours before the season if you want to have a shot at the pennant at the end.”

  That’s where I went wrong with Nadia—not putting in the hours. Not dating properly, not taking my time. And when I realized things were moving too fast, I should have slowed down.

  But nope. It’s like I’ve learned nothing whatso-fucking-ever from my mistakes. I’m still diving headfirst off the relationship cliff. And what has that ever gotten me? Legal fees, stolen socks, the prospect of jail time in a foreign country.

  And I can’t fix it, can’t go back and date her properly, because I’m leaving for Arizona in two days, and that’s that.

  Holden and I walk Jacob home, then I call a Lyft from outside his house, zipping up my hoodie as we wait, and cursing the cold-as-balls weather. “I won’t miss San Francisco in February, that’s for sure. Give me the Arizona desert, I say.”

  “Bet you’ll miss something about here,” Holden says dryly.

  I lift a brow. “Yeah?”

  He gives me a look as we pile into the car, heading back across the city. “Yeah,” he says, imitating me dead-on.

  “Dude.”

  “Why are you duding me? I’ve been waiting for a report. You and Eric’s sister. What’s the deal? Obviously you have it bad for her.”

  “And obviously I made a pact to do nothing about it,” I say defensively.

  Holden laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit about your deal.”

  “C’mon. You kidnapped me a week ago. You Drakkar Noir jacket-boarded me.”

  He lifts an imaginary violin, pretending to play it. “Poor Crosby.”

  I flip him the bird. “Goose biscuit,” I mutter.

  “Goose biscuit? What the fuck? You can’t even swear properly?”

  “Evidently I can’t. And I paid for your tuxes. I’ll honor the deal. I know I blew it.”

  “Whoa. I’m not saying this to get you to cash in.”

  “Then why are you saying it?” I fire off, pissed at him, at myself, at the whole damn universe.

  “Someone is testy.”

  I drag a hand down my face, breathing out hard, trying to let go of all my frustrations bubbling up inside me. “Sorry, man. That’s on me.”

  “No worries,” he says as the driver heads into Grant’s hood, swinging past a coffee shop I know.

  “Can we stop here? I need a pick-me-up. They have organic black tea,” I say, a little embarrassed.

  “No problem,” the driver says, pulling in front of Doctor Insomnia’s Coffee and Tea Emporium.

  Once we’re out of the car, I level with Holden. “Look, there was something going on with Nadia. But now it’s nothing.”

  He scoffs. “It didn’t look like nothing the other night.”

  “What did it look like?”

  He takes a beat, then locks eyes with me, like I’m the target. “Everything. It looked like everything.”

  My chest seizes up. Were we that obvious? Maybe we were. Because it felt like everything with Nadia. “But that’s the problem. I need to slow the fuck down. I need to practice being single,” I say as I head into the shop, order a tea, thank the barista, then head back out with the steaming cup.

  “But do you truly need to practice being single?” Holden asks as we walk up the street.

  “Hello? Have you met me? You guys all lit into me the other night about my horrible taste,” I say, then take a scalding sip.

  The tea burns my tongue.

  “We’ve all made mistakes though. Maybe you just need to recognize when something isn’t a mistake.” Holden scratches his jaw as he turns philosophical.

  I go pensive too, considering his words of wisdom. Trying to understand what is and isn’t a mistake.

  “How do you know though?” I ask, wanting his advice now, no longer testy.

  “Maybe when you can’t get her out of your system,” he says, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. “Because there’s always a woman like that, right? The one you can’t get out of your head? Maybe you had one night with her, one kiss, one conversation. Your what-if woman.”

  “You’re talking from experience, aren’t you?”

  “It was a while ago,” he says as we cross the street.

  “Who is she?” I ask, more intrigued now by his sitch than mine.

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t even know what she’s up to anymore.”

  “You going to look her up?”

  “Maybe,” he says with a shrug, then a shake of his head. “But maybe I should just focus on the team.”


  I nod, getting it, understanding confusion completely. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what I need to do too. But in the meantime, tell me more about your what-if girl.”

  He cracks a smile. “She’s definitely the what-if woman. It was one night. A couple years ago.”

  “The one-night stand you can’t get out of your mind?”

  He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t scoff. He only sighs wistfully. “Almost. But not exactly. It wasn’t even a one-night stand. More like a great conversation and an out-of-this-world kiss, a great time. Kind of crazy, right?”

  We turn the corner, and then I stop in my tracks when I spot a familiar face. It’s Declan, ducking out of another coffee shop—this neighborhood has them springing up like baby bunnies. He’s got a Hawks ball cap on his head, and a cup in his hand. He lifts his chin in greeting. “Hey, guys.”

  I give him a curious look. “You’re still in town? Figured you had left.”

  “I’ve got friends and family here,” he says. “I stayed an extra night, but I’m catching a flight back to New York in two hours.”

  “Was it good to see peeps?” Holden asks.

  Declan’s lips twitch, maybe with the hint of a grin. “Yeah. Mostly.” Distracted, he looks at his watch. “I should go. I’ll catch you on the first home stand. You’ll be on my turf, and we plan to destroy you,” he says to me.

  Ah, that’s the Declan I know. He’s the most competitive bastard in the league.

  “As if the Comets can do anything but choke on our dust,” I say.

  “You’ll be choking at the plate,” he says with a wicked grin, then tugs on the bill of his cap before he tips his forehead in the direction of the airport. “Gotta take off.”

  “See you,” Holden says.

  Declan takes off, and we head up the block and around the corner, ready to rap on Grant’s door. But he’s already bounding down the steps in his workout clothes, his hair a wild mess, like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket.

  I shoot him a look. “You’ve been DoorDashing on a Saturday afternoon?”