The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) by Lauren Blakely (best fiction novels of all time txt) 📗

thief, all right, stealing that embrace. As my arms wrapped around her, the force of my own crush—it had come out of nowhere—hit me like a wild pitch slamming into my thigh.

She was stunning.

And some asshole was going to reap the rewards.

But then, nothing happened with Mr. Netflix, because she came home before midnight, made some popcorn, and invited Eric and me to join her in the kitchen.

Eric said he’d be right there after SportsCenter, but I was all too willing to leave the sports news behind.

“How was prom?” I asked, gritting my teeth, hoping her early return meant Charlie had been cast in the role of the too-boring-to-get-another-date role.

She rolled her eyes. “All he wanted to talk about was himself.”

My shoulders relaxed. I had to fight off a smile. “I take it that’s not on your list of favorite topics?”

She shook her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she kicked off her heels. “I want someone to laugh with, make fun of the world with, talk about the world with. Charlie has the conversation range of a biscuit.”

With a straight face, I said, “Biscuits, I’m told, are not known for their sparkling wit.”

“Sparkling wit is a prerequisite. I haven’t been on a ton of dates, but I know this much—without sparkling wit, I have zero interest,” she said, then offered me some of the popcorn. I took a handful, popped it into my mouth, and chewed.

“Because you give good sparkles. You give good wit. And obviously, you have top-notch taste,” I said, then pointed to the popcorn, maybe so I wouldn’t be completely transparent.

She smiled, big and wide. “I do have good taste.”

I upped the ante. “The best.”

Her eyes locked with mine for a beat, maybe more. She nibbled on the corner of her lip, then drew a shuddery breath. “Who won the game?”

That was the end of the moment—a terribly brief one.

At the time, I didn’t think much of our conversation. I filed it away in the drawer of Nadia intel.

But in retrospect, it feels like it was the start of something.

At least for me.

Maybe the start of seeing her as something more than my friend’s sister.

Seeing her as a woman. With desires, with interests, with dates.

When the ceremony ends and we exit the ballroom, heading into the hotel hallway, waiting for the pics to begin, I want to know what her dating situation is.

Scratch that. I need to know. It feels important. In the same way that it felt important to know how prom went.

What if she’s seeing someone?

I dive right in. “Now that you’re back, are you going to break all the hearts in San Francisco? Like Charlie Duncan’s was surely broken the night you declared him duller than a biscuit.”

She laughs. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in ages.”

“Your prom date,” I supply.

“Yeah, I know. He was sort of . . .” She looks me over, her gaze landing on the lapel of my jacket. “About as interesting as a pocket square.”

I tug on mine. “I’d say, ‘Poor Charlie,’ but I can’t muster any sympathy for a dude on the same level as a piece of ornamental clothing.”

She laughs. “At least I didn’t call him a hanky.”

“I might have felt bad for him then.”

She shakes her head. “Nah, I don’t think you would have.”

“You’re probably right,” I say, then return to getting the info I want. “So you must have left behind a trail of broken hearts, then, in Las Vegas.”

She scoffs. “Not even a nicked heart, Crosby.”

“How about paper cuts? Did you administer all sorts of paper cuts on the hearts of the men of Vegas?”

With a sliver of a sad smile, she shakes her head. “Not even the tiniest little ache or bruise, I swear.”

This I find hard to believe. “Are you really telling me that you’ve been single the whole time?”

“The entire time.”

Whoa.

How is it possible that a babe of the highest order does not leave behind a trail of shattered hearts?

I scratch my jaw, furrow my brow, and part my lips, trying to figure out what to say, because this is insane. “How is that possible?” I ask, taking my time with each word like I’m speaking in a foreign language, but this is foreign to me. And hell, it ought to be foreign to everyone.

I eye her from stem to stern. From knee to breast.

She’s gorgeous and brilliant and fascinating.

She clears her throat. “My eyes are up here, Crosby,” she says, pointing to those big brown irises that are like pools of the warmest color, with gold flecks at the edges, drawing me in.

Busted.

But I’m cool with that.

It was simply a friendly assessment of the sitch.

“And they are a beautiful brown. I was just doing my due diligence. Assessing everything that you just said. Trying to figure out what kind of fucktangular insanity is happening to the men in Las Vegas?”

“Actually, it’s frocktagonal insanity, but to-may-toe, to-mah-toe.”

I laugh. “I forgot—you don’t swear.”

She flutters her lashes. “I’m such a good girl.”

Is she though?

My mind wanders once again to images of this good girl being bad. Shake it off, man. “Of course you are.” I narrow my eyes, goading her. “But someday I’ll get you to swear.”

“You’ll have to work really forking hard at that,” she says, all saucy as she throws down a challenge.

“You’re on,” I say, offering her a hand to shake on it.

She shakes back, then gestures to my eyes. “So that whole slide-your-gaze-up-and-down is due diligence? Is that what it’s called?” Her lips corkscrew in an I’ve caught you smile.

I square my shoulders, owning it. “Yes. Indeed it is. I’m all about gathering empirical evidence. And I’ve gathered it with eyes, ears, and brain. You are a goddess, and the fact that men in Vegas do not know this leads me to arrive at only one conclusion. Men in Las Vegas are clearly douche trumpets.”

“I was going to go with dingle nuggets, but yours works too,” she says.

I snap my fingers. “Dammit.”

“Nice try