The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,16
to recall something. He tilts his head. “Or maybe he had a crush on you?”
I blink, stopping in my tracks, as the floor imitates a tilt-a-whirl. He did not say that. “What are you talking about?”
“Just seemed that way when we were younger,” Eric says, like this yummy nugget is on the same level as remembering a test junior year that he earned an A on. Something mundane and ordinary, when it’s actually the opposite. It’s big and fascinating. “But what difference does it make now?” Eric asks philosophically. “He’s off the market anyway, and I’m going to make sure he stays that way. I promised him I would.”
“I’m off the market too,” I say, since I need to remember that. I need to underline it, bold it, highlight it.
“Good. Just making sure. You both have way too much going on in your lives for anything to happen. But you’re back in the same city now, and I know days like today make people do crazy things. I met Mariana at a wedding, so I know what happens at weddings.”
I roll my eyes. Then I roll them once more all the way to the back of my head and around. “Nothing is going to happen at your wedding,” I whisper.
I repeat that mantra as the ceremony begins.
I say it a few times as Eric walks down the aisle to the front of the ballroom.
I imprint it on my brain several times.
When the music begins for the bridal party, I clutch a few tissues strategically around my bouquet, ready to dab my eyes.
But it turns out, I don’t feel like crying when I spot Crosby outside the ballroom.
The opposite occurs as he strides over to me, proffering a corsage, then the words, “For you.”
Blue roses bloom brilliantly, and he slides it onto my wrist, next to my watch. My breath hitches as his fingers graze my skin.
Nothing is going to happen at the wedding.
My skin seems to feel otherwise though, all lit up and electric from the barest touch.
“Gorgeous,” I whisper as I stare at the roses, then at my ruby ring, which seems to catch their reflection. I tear my gaze away to take the matching boutonniere and affix it to his lapel. My fingers are steady, but my senses are frantic, out-of-whack radars that are going haywire as I slide the pin through the back of the boutonniere. A faint hint of his aftershave drifts past my nose, the scent woodsy and clean, and it scrambles my brain, sending those wild neurons into hyperdrive.
He smells so enticing.
And he looks like he belongs on a magazine cover beneath the headline “Rugged All-American Athlete.”
The suit, the five-o’ clock shadow, the twinkling eyes.
Everything.
Just everything.
I step back. “Excellent flower choice,” I say, doing my best to sound friendly.
“Glad you approve.”
He offers his arm, and I drink in the sight of him once more.
My libido roars, rises up, taps my shoulder, and whispers like the she-devil she is in my ear, He looks crazy hot, doesn’t he?
Yes, Crosby Cash looks insanely yummy in that non-ruffled, non-bell-bottomed blue tux that hugs his muscles and shows off his flat stomach and makes me want to climb him like a tree.
He looks incredible with his dark hair that demands fingers be run through it, with his stubble that begs for hands to roam over it.
And those eyes . . .
Those eyes that simply say he’s imagining a woman naked.
He gazes at me with those eyes right this second.
My skin heats everywhere.
Dear God, my rabbit is going to be working overtime tonight.
Especially when Crosby flashes his grin at me. That easygoing grin on his stupidly gorgeous face.
When he links arms with me, a hot shiver rushes over my skin, pulses between my legs.
He leans in closer and whispers, “That dress.”
That’s all he says.
Two words that if written down, if placed in the middle of a poster on a wall, wouldn’t inherently seem like a lusty, sexy compliment.
But from his mouth, in this moment, with heat in his eyes, they feel like the sexiest thing anyone has ever said.
As we walk down the aisle arm in arm, I don’t feel friendly.
I feel something else entirely. Something I haven’t felt in ages.
Maybe ever.
A dangerous desire.
6
Crosby
Two weeks.
My turn-off-the-nuclear-reactor-of-my-love-life experiment is fourteen days strong, and I haven’t texted an ex or swiped right.
Hell, I killed my Tinder account.
I deleted all my exes’ contact info from my phone.