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

though, getting me to cave,” she says in a sexy taunt.

“But is ‘douche’ actually a swear?”

“Would you say it in a boardroom?” she counters. “That was my father’s logic. If you won’t say it in a boardroom, don’t say it.”

“Ah, I don’t hang out in boardrooms. Locker rooms for this guy.”

“And boardrooms for this gal. So it’s ‘dingles,’ ‘forks,’ and ‘sons of a mailbox’ for me,” she says, tapping her chest. “Rather than ‘sons of you-know-what.’”

“That’s perfect—the men of Vegas are sons of mailboxes.”

She inches closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or have you considered I scare them off with my anti-man perfume?”

“Like mosquito repellent but for dudes?” I ask, like I’m processing this new development. Dipping my hand into the front pocket of my suit pants, I grab my phone, click on my Amazon app, then speak into it. “Alexa, show me anti-man repellent.”

The coolly robotic voice asks if I want mosquito repellent.

Nadia shakes her head, wagging her finger. “You’ve got to ask her for anti-man repellent on discount. Don’t you want a deal?”

I nod, big and long. “Yes. You know me so well.” I clear my throat and speak more slowly. “Alexa, show me your Deal of the Day anti-man repellent.”

“I did not understand. Please repeat that request,” the voice from my phone chirps.

“Hold on. I’ve got this.” Nadia leans in closer. “Show me douche biscuit repellent.”

The phone is quiet for a few seconds, then Alexa speaks. “Here are the results for goose biscuit pellets.”

I cringe, shuddering.

Nadia joins me, full-on horror-movie-style. “Who is buying goose biscuit pellets?”

“And are they for the goose or the eater of the goose?” I ask.

“Are they even organic?”

“Organic goose eggbeaters. Here are more results,” the phone voice chimes in, picking up on words we both said.

Nadia doubles over, cracking up. “I refuse to believe that’s a thing.”

“Alexa said it. You cannot argue with Alexa,” I say, turning off the app and tucking the phone into my pocket.

“I can, and I will,” Nadia says. “Especially since Alexa can’t find the anti-man perfume that I clearly bought on Subscribe and Save a few months ago. I mean, how else to explain my absolute terrible luck?”

“Want me to test your perfume? See if it works?”

“You’re not worried it might scare you away?” Her voice dips low, to a tone that suggests I’d be in danger if my nose goes near her.

“I’ve got this. Hold my beer,” I say, handing her an imaginary can.

I draw a deep breath, shake out my arms, and stretch my neck, limbering up like I’m going to battle.

She waggles her fingers by her neck and lifts her chin, giving me room. That is a gorgeous image—her leaning in, offering her neck.

Setting a hand on the bare skin of her arm, I congratulate myself for finding an excuse to move closer to her.

But even so, this is all fun and games.

No matter how sexy she is, we are just friends having a good time.

A damn good time.

I play along with the teasing mood, dipping closer. My nose brushes faintly across her skin. My eyes close. A rumble works its way up my throat, and my senses go haywire.

My fuses trip, nerves fraying like an electrical wire about to snap.

Nadia Harlowe smells better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.

And I don’t want this dream to end.

So I linger, my nose skating along the delicate skin of her throat, getting high off the scent of her.

Like a summer day, but with a hint of something floral under it.

Like a tropical bloom after a summer rainstorm, the kind of afternoon shower that leaves droplets of water clinging to your skin, roaming over soft, dewy flesh.

That’s what she smells like.

Like she’s wearing a bikini and a little sarong thing, like we’ve been wandering through the emerald-green gardens on Kauai, stealing kisses on a hot day as the sun beats down and we hunt for shade.

My mind is officially elsewhere. It’s in vacationland with Nadia. It’s in Lustville. In Fantasy Arena.

Isn’t this the problem? Isn’t this my kryptonite? The very thing I vowed to stop at the tux store?

But then, maybe it’s not.

Because Nadia and I aren’t the problem.

She’s not the type of woman I need to resist. She’s not an ex, she’s not bad news, she’s not trouble.

She’s the opposite.

A friend.

A damn good one.

And I can be pals with a sexy-as-sin woman. Doesn’t mean I’m caving.

In fact, 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