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

turn this around. I am allowed to scam. You are not. You made an unbreakable promise to Eric and Gabe, then they enlisted us to have your back,” Holden adds, gesturing between him and Grant.

Grant claps me on the shoulder, shooting a smile in my direction. “You can do this, buddy.” He drops his voice. “Just don’t make me regret supporting you.”

“You can clean out my locker and steal all my clothes if I cave.”

Grant taps his chin, his eyes going wide with delight, from the look of the twinkle in his baby blues. “That would be hella amusing, but I think we’d rather you admit on national TV that we’re both better than you at the best sport ever.”

“Yes. That. I want that, twenty-two,” Holden says, too gleeful for my taste. Especially since he’s on our rival team.

I wave the white flag. “Fine. You’ve got it. I’ll admit that on TV if I fall, but I won’t fall. I’ve got this. And the tuxes are on me, dickwads. As a thank you for your service.”

“Wow. You’re so generous. All I’ve ever wanted is a free tux,” Holden says, flinging a hand to his heart.

I flip him the bird as I hop up from the chair. “News flash. I’ve gone two weeks avoiding the sock thief and amateur photogs of my past. I’ve got this, just like I’ve got the hanging curveballs,” I say, since those are my favorite pitches to go long on.

Holden arches a doubtful brow. “Nadia is a hanging curveball?”

Grant scratches his jaw. “Not sure that’s right. Hanging curveballs are your temptation. You can’t resist them. You swing at them every time.”

“And I hit them,” I say. “I swing at hanging curveballs because I can motherfucking hit them over the fence and into the San Francisco Bay.” I pump a fist. “Booyah. Who hit a homer all the way over the bleacher seats and into the Bay last year?” That shit is hard to do, and I pulled it off.

Grant taps his chest. “Did you forget that I hit one out there too?”

I clear my throat. “Listen, this is not an issue. There is nothing to worry about. Nadia and I are friends, and we have been forever. I’m hanging out with her. We’re having a nice time. I’m in time-out. She’s in time-out,” I say, a little worked up because how are they not getting it? How do they not see the obvious? “Therefore, nothing can happen between us.” I flap my arm outside the room in the general direction of Nadia, then back at myself. I smooth a hand down my jacket. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a reception to go to.”

I leave, joining Nadia at the table. She smells so damn good, but I am not giving into the temptation.

I’ve got this.

8

Crosby

I blame chia seeds.

And kale.

Blueberries are definitely responsible too. They made me the organic monster I am when it comes to food.

My mom, though, is the biggest reason, since she fed me all that before I could walk. She was and is the queen of all things organic, and started her own organic café in San Rafael when I was in grade school.

When the waiter swings by with the chicken entrée, my knee-jerk reaction is to ask the usual question. “Is the chicken organic?”

With a light bow of his head, he answers, “Yes, it is, sir.”

As he deposits the plates in front of the other guests, Nadia pats my shoulder. “You’re safe here, Crosby. We know you and your mango-loving heart.”

“Mangoes and me are like that,” I say, crossing my index and middle finger. “Anyway, old habits,” I say with a shrug and a smile, because this is what I’m talking about—Nadia and I know each other, down to our families and the nitty-gritty of our food preferences.

Nadia tips her forehead in the direction of my mom, a few tables away, her curly red hair falling down her back.

“How is Sunny?” she asks.

My mom is parked next to Nadia’s mom, listening to her intently.

That’s my mom. The only way she knows how to listen is intently.

The universe gave us one mouth and two ears, she likes to say.

“She and Kana opened a ninth location of Green Goddess,” I say, then gesture to the woman next to my mom, a regal-looking lady hailing from Japan, with sleek black hair. They’ve been a thing for a few years now, and they’re holding hands at the table. “And it’s going well.”

“And that’s going well too, I take it?” Her tone says she’s asking about my mom’s romantic interest.

Seeing my mom happy again ignites a smile on my face and warmth in my chest. “Oh yeah. Big time. I keep telling Sunny to lock that down, but she insists, ‘Everything happens according to its own lunar calendar,’” I say, imitating my mom and her soothing tone for dispensing adages.

The thing she loves to serve up most, right along with kale and quinoa.

“That sounds exactly like your mom. She has a mantra for everything,” Nadia says after taking a bite of her chicken dish.

“She does. And it absolutely rubbed off on me. I’m a big fan of mantras,” I say, because mantras are seeing me through this lady diet right now. On that note, maybe I should start thinking of Nadia as sugar. And cake. And cookies.

All the verboten treats that won’t touch my lips.

Resist cookies. Resist Nadia.

There. Perfect.

She lifts her wineglass and takes a drink, her brow knitting as if she’s deep in thought. “Is it hard getting used to her with someone else?”

I shake my head. “Nah, she’s happy. Honestly, she’s just as happy as when she was with my dad,” I say, since my mom’s always been an affectionate person. She was that way with my dad before he died when I was in college after a quick battle with pancreatic cancer.

“Did it surprise you? That she’d fallen in love with a woman?”

I flash back to the night Mom told my