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

night—accidental butt squeeze, accidental . . . eggplant pic.”

My brain takes a two-second delay to connect the dots, and when I do, I give her a c’mon look. “You don’t say ‘dick’?”

She flutters her lashes ever so innocently. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do.”

“Maybe I’ll find out. Accidentally. Now, about that eggplant . . .”

I grab my phone from my pocket.

“Crosby,” she says, her tone worried.

But this ought to assuage her embarrassment. I unlock my phone, slide my thumb across the screen, and wiggle a brow, like I’m up to something terribly naughty.

And I kind of am.

I hunt for the perfect shot as she protests, “Crosby, I swear, I was just having—”

I brandish the screen at her.

She flinches.

Steps back.

Then a chuckle burst from her lips. “Sam Spade. That’s brilliant.”

“He’s a private dick,” I say, turning the phone back to check out the picture of the private dick that Humphrey Bogart played in The Maltese Falcon.

“You are the best,” she says, then moves in for a hug.

With my phone in one hand, I wrap my arms around her, enjoying the feel of her in my embrace.

I steal one final inhale of her neck, then let go, and as I do, my boutonniere grazes the strap of her dress, threatening to grab hold of it.

That won’t do.

I curl my hand over her shoulder. “Hold still. Let me make sure my boutonniere doesn’t cause a nip slip,” I say, carefully releasing the pin from the slim blue strap.

She breathes a sigh of relief as I detach my accessory from her strap.

“My nipples and I thank you,” she says as we pull apart. She waggles her arm, showing off the corsage. “This made the outfit, right?”

“No doubt. The corsage is a winner.”

“And your boutonniere is fire,” she says. “Even if it tried to mate with my dress.”

“Smart boutonniere.” I fiddle with it. “It is pretty spiffy, and it’s holding up well. I might even be able to use it again at the Sports Network Awards this week.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to that. I have to present an award there.”

A smile takes over my face. A plan takes over my mind. “What do you know? So do I,” I say, and the gears click. “Are you soloing it?”

“Stag all the way.”

I wiggle an eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She glances around the reception, like she’s scanning for options, then she taps her chin. “I could take Brooke, or her daughter, or my mom, or your mom. Is that what you had in mind?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “We can put our corsage and boutonniere to good use. Buddy up again?”

Her grin is electric. “We’re awesome at it. Let’s make it a doubleheader.”

I hum appreciatively. “I love when you use baseball analogies. And yes, I’m thinking you and I pair up again before I have to go to spring training,” I say, just to make it clear what I have in mind. “We can be, like, each other’s event dates.”

“Sort of like escorts for various functions?”

I can’t resist that. “Do you want the full package of escort services?” I ask, low and dirty.

She nibbles on the corner of her lips, adopting a saucy smile. “Depends on the fee.” Then she turns businesslike. “But while you’re offering, and since you’re off the market, want to be my plus-one at a charity event next weekend? I have a golf thing I’m attending.”

I make a purring sound. “Mmm. Golf. Every pro athlete’s addiction. Yes, please.”

“We’ll plus-one each other.”

“We have to, especially since Hollywood is making our rom-com—Plus-Oneing with the Best Man.”

“And I’m glad the best man will be my plus-one,” she says.

My chest warms and my mind buzzes at the prospect of another event with her.

Another plus-one.

It’s both a terrific opportunity and a bit of a conundrum.

I spend the rest of the wedding trying to figure out what to do with the fact that I like my buddy’s sister.

As the night winds down, Eric pulls me aside, clapping my shoulder. “Don’t forget I have eyes everywhere. Just because I’ll be in the Maldives doesn’t mean I won’t be watching you. And you asked me to,” he says, stern, like he was in the tux shop.

I did ask him. I do know what’s good for me. And hey, nothing has happened. So I’m still on the wagon.

“And I was already interrogated by your henchmen,” I say.

“Good. They’ll be keeping their eyes on you while I’m gone,” he says, then tips his head to Holden and Grant, who are drinking beers at the bar. Holden is chatting with a woman in a peach dress, Grant with a bearded dude.

“Yeah, they look super focused on their mission to keep me in line,” I tease.

“They’re focused enough. Nine more days till spring training. You can do it. And then you’ll behave during spring training because you’ll be busy all the time.”

“I’ve so got this. And you go on your honeymoon. Worship your wife. Fuck your brains out. Drink piña coladas. I will be fine,” I tell him, and it feels mostly true.

Until I get in the elevator alone with Nadia at the end of the evening.

11

Nadia

I’m not into dick pics.

That’s not because I’m a prude. And it’s not because I still carry my V card. It’s because when I watch porn—and I do watch it, thank you very much, incognito mode—I’m not simply interested in the dick.

I want to know what the man does with it. How it makes the woman feel. But also how she appears to feel when he’s doing other things for her. Going down on her, kissing her breasts, worshipping her body.

So why does my brain keep planting images of what Crosby’s dick might look like?

Not helpful.

As in it’s not helpful to staying plus-one-ers.

Especially since he’s on a dating diet.

Maybe I need to reassure him that I’m not some kind of perv who’s dying for him to whip out his schlong for the camera.

That I’m his friend. That I support his