The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,32

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