The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,20

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