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

when your fly is down, when you’ve ticked me off, and when you have made my day with your awesomeness.

I’ll be your biggest champion, and I’ll also be the one to let you know when you’ve stepped in mud.

That’s how I am in business and in friendship.

But there’s another side to every woman.

The secret side.

I have mine. Oh hell, do I ever. I have a drawerful of classified intel on moi.

And when it comes to dating and mating and other forms of associating, I rarely share any hush-hush info. First date, second date—I can’t remember when I last had a third—I’ve never been one to spill the insider scoop on the heart, mind, and body of Nadia Harlowe.

And that’s how it’s been. Until my brother’s wedding, when I asked to see the best man’s dick pic.

With that, my secret starts to unravel, and once it does, there’s no reeling it back in.

1

Crosby

It’s official.

I’m radioactive.

My relationship fiascos have gotten so bad that they belong on a BuzzFeed Top Five list. Actually, I’m lucky no wiseass has made one.

Confronted with the final bill from my lawyer, I take a hard look at the results of my latest belly flop into the dating pool. My cousin Rachel introduced me to Daria, a motivational speaker who was highly motivated to sell a racy shot of my favorite body part to a sleazy publication.

Fine, fine. I shouldn’t have sent Daria the dirty pic in the first place, but you should have seen the one she sent me.

Along with a dare: Ball’s in your court.

And my balls very nearly wound up in court as evidence of her malfeasance.

That was fun.

And costly. From my comfy couch, I hit send on the payment to Bentley & Cohen Partners and heave a sigh.

“Good riddance, Daria,” I mutter. I ended that fling months ago, but the wreckage took this long to clean up.

Rachel blames herself for the Daria debacle, and she’s been texting daily to ask how I am or to send a picture of her kittens chasing their tails, or to forward me a particularly witty column from my favorite political satire site.

But she thinks a new woman will make up for the last one being a rotten egg.

How about Rosemary the schoolteacher? What about Marisa the boutique owner?

And this latest one that just arrived:

Rachel: Can I set you up with my fabulous friend Sasha? She’s a nurse! She loves baseball, rescue animals, and hiking in Muir Woods, just like you do. Plus, she’s a sweetheart.

She’s included a picture of her friend—a gorgeous redhead smiling at the top of a mountain she just climbed—but I’m not even tempted.

Okay, I’m a little tempted. I’m not made of iron, and Rachel’s hiking pal is smoking hot.

But I’m turning over a new leaf.

I stand, grab my keys, and tap out a reply as I leave my pad in Pacific Heights.

Crosby: Love ya, Rach, but I’m benching myself. I am out of the running for dates, setups, hookups, situationships, or more.

Rachel: Really? Are you just saying that? I swear, she’s nothing like Daria. I still feel terrible.

Crosby: We’re all good. And yes, really. If I kept hitting into double plays or striking out looking, my manager would bench me. So I’m doing the same to myself.

Rachel: Has there ever been a time when you couldn’t use a baseball analogy?

Crosby: Life is baseball.

Rachel: Ah. So, what if you miss a shot at a home run with this woman while you’re benched?

Crosby: That’s a chance I’ll take. Gotta run—tux fitting with Eric in ten minutes.

Rachel: You’ll meet someone soon who’s a sweetheart. I just know it! Keep the faith.

I respond with a noncommittal smiley face. Rachel’s a good one, but she’s dead wrong. I don’t meet sweethearts. I meet bad girls.

I like bad girls. And bad girls like me.

But they haven’t been good for me. Hence, it’s time for a change.

Tucking my phone into my jeans pocket, I zip up my fleece—San Francisco is fuck-all cold in February—and make my way up Fillmore Street to Gabriel’s Tuxedos, feeling solid with my dating game plan.

The zero-date plan.

In baseball, a player sometimes needs to sit out a few innings to reset. And I figure if that works in baseball, it must work for anything else, including dating.

I meet my longtime bud outside the tuxedo shop, knock fists, then head for the changing rooms in the back, where Gabriel shows us the wedding duds.

He’s my regular supplier, and he takes care of the guys on my team too. I’ve got my own tuxes—every pro athlete does—but Eric’s bride loves the color blue, so I needed a new one for his nuptials.

I change into a navy-blue tux, then step out to check my dapper reflection in the three-way mirror. “Can’t help it. I was born to make tuxes look good.”

Eric smooths a hand over his lapel. “Need Gabriel to find a bigger door for your ego when we leave?”

“The loading doors are in the back,” the shop owner says, straight-faced.

“Double-wide for my pal’s head, I hope,” Eric says.

“On it.” A new customer walks in, and Gabriel excuses himself to take care of them. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.” I turn to Eric as Gabriel moves off. “You didn’t give me a chance to share the love. I was going to say you look like a cool cat too. We both look good.”

“Thanks, that was heartfelt,” Eric says dryly.

“That’s what the best man is for. Moral support and the occasional compliment.”

“Everything I could ever want.”

I adjust my cuff links in the mirror, catching Eric’s gaze more seriously. I need to tell him I’ve decided to hand over the keys to the dating car for the next stretch of road. That I need a designated driver because I can’t be trusted behind the wheel.

“Speaking of moral support . . .” I clear my throat. “Remember that time in eleventh grade when I vowed not to send Avery Forrester a bouquet of flowers from a secret admirer,