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

of people, and she’s the owner of the football team, so it’s good for her to be seen out and about with somebody when she goes to these events. Likewise, it’s good for me to be seen with someone who’s not—”

“A train wreck?” Grant supplies.

“A criminal?” Chance puts in.

“Convicted for insider trading?” Chance continues, his voice going all serious. “Do you think maybe you have a problem with picking the wrong type of women?”

I roll my eyes as we near the Spotted Zebra and I hunt for a parking space. “Gee. I wonder if I do.”

Grant lets out a sympathetic sigh. “You just let people in too soon. That’s all. Got to protect that heart.” He smacks my chest. “Trust me.”

For a second, Grant’s tone is deadly serious, and a little sad.

“Speaking from experience?” I ask, no teasing this time, no mocking.

Chance leans in closer, his tone low and menacing. “Yeah, did some dude hurt you? Because I will cut that fucker.”

Grant shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’m all good now. It was a while ago. Right before my rookie season.”

“Who was he?” I ask, since I’m not buying the no-big-deal routine.

Grant waves a hand dismissively. “No one.”

“He hurt you, and he’s no one? Was he a spring training hookup?” Chance asks.

“Yeah, he was.”

“Were you in love?” Chance presses.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grant work his jaw, clench it, then let go. “Doesn’t matter. I was young and foolish. It’s in the past. No biggie now.”

“You sure?” I push.

“Positive,” Grant says with a crisp nod, slicing off this line of questioning. “Anyway, back to Crosby.” He taps his sternum. “You need to watch out for your ticker.”

“So Crosby should keep women at a distance?” Chance asks.

“Hello? I’m still here,” I point out.

“Whatever,” Chance says. “Let your bros have your back.”

“Fine. What sage advice would my bros give me tonight, then?” I ask as I pull into a spot.

“Here’s the advice I’ll give you. Be careful. Be very careful who you let in. You’ll keep your heart safe that way,” Grant says, as I parallel park in three perfect moves.

When I cut the engine, I go a little more serious. “Everything is chill with Nadia. We’re going as friends, and that’s all it is. Honestly, it’d be the same as if, say, Grant went with your brother to some type of event,” I say to Chance.

Grant cringes as he swings open the door. “Are you fucking kidding me? TJ? You think I should date his twin?”

“Yeah,” I suggest, egging him on. “Like, maybe if you needed a date. A plus-one for an event. Why not take TJ?”

Grant’s jaw drops. It comes unhinged. It falls to the sidewalk. He gives me a duh look. “He looks exactly like Chance. No way could I kiss someone who looks like my friend.”

“Aww. We’re friends now,” Chance says, bringing his hand to his heart. “I’m touched.”

Grant flips him the bird. “Yes, asshole. We’re friends. But I’m not dating your brother. That is too weird.”

The notion is indeed weird. But it’s also distracting.

The debate over dating a friend’s twin occupies the two of them for the next hour as we go into Grant’s sister’s bar, order beers, and shoot the breeze.

Neither one of them even tries to score any numbers. They’re too deep in their bar debate.

They decide Grant’s chances of dating TJ are less than zero.

Are those the same as my chances with Nadia?

They should be zero.

But when I click open my text messages after I finish my brew, a photo loads.

Two pics, actually.

The first is a shot of some silky fabric on her bed, a close-up of her dress. It’s the color of wine, and a growl forms in my throat as I imagine how that dress will look on her body.

The next pic, though, knocks the breath clear from my lungs.

She sent me a shot of her feet in a sexy-as-sin pair of heels.

My mind springs several steps ahead, picturing those legs curled over my shoulders.

Wrapped around my waist.

Spread open on the bed for me.

Ah hell.

The chances of me resisting her are not zero.

Not even close.

14

Nadia

I’ll see Crosby in less than forty-eight hours.

I am most definitely counting down.

I’m not even going to pretend I’m not.

I’m counting down, and I’m shopping.

Since I’ve bought shoes when dates have gone awry, I’m damn well going to buy shoes in advance of one that I’m sure will go fantastically.

Okay, fine. It’s not a date. It’s an event where we’re pairing up. Still, events require shoes.

With a pair of red heels in her hand, my mother settles onto a plush pink cushion on a chair at one of our favorite shops on Union Street.

My mother and I bond over many things, shopping among them. Because shopping is great for talking, and that’s something we’ve always done well. We talk, and we share.

“Over a week on the job back in San Francisco. What’s your verdict?”

I peer out the window of the store. “It’s . . . foggy here.”

She laughs as she slides on the shoes.

My lips form an O as I check out the new footwear. “My verdict on those shoes is they are a must buy,” I say, pointing decisively at the beauties on her feet.

“I do love them,” she says, pursing her lips as she studies the way they fit. “Where would I wear them though?”

“Anywhere,” I say, as the sales associate returns with a gorgeous pair of amethyst velvet shoes for me. I thank her, then continue my ode to Mom’s cherry-red pumps. “Everywhere. Gardening. Jigsaw puzzling. Shopping. Going out for tea. Heck, I’d wear those babies walking around the house. And I’d stop and admire my feet in the mirror every time I walked past one.”

She taps her chin. “All good ideas. I wonder if I should . . .”

The light bulb goes off. “Wait. Are they for a date?”

She dips her head, her shy smile giving me the answer I need. She confirms it with a nod