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

of lucky socks just to celebrate being on a fine-ass team.”

On that note we pop into Gabriel’s Tuxedos on the next block. “I need a new pair for tonight. Every event needs its own inaugural socks,” I say, heading for a display of the sartorial item in question. Flicking through pairs, I find one that suits my fancy. Fox socks. “I deem these my new lucky socks.”

I hold the pair above my head, Simba-style.

“Those are ugly as sin, so they’re perfect for you,” Holden says.

“Or maybe I’m just a fox and they match me.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

At the register, Gabe says hello then shoots me a give me news stare. “How’s it going with the plan?”

“Yes, inquiring minds want to know,” Holden adds with avid eyes of his own. The man knows my temptation. My particular one.

But I haven’t fallen too far off the wagon. I’m holding on to the wheels. I give them two thumbs up. “I am all good.”

“You’re being a good boy?” Gabe asks, wanting to be sure.

“So good.”

That feels true enough for now.

We take off with my socks in hand, heading to my favorite salad-and-grain-bowl spot for lunch. As we eat, Holden and I chat more about his season ahead, and what he wants to do differently to distance himself from the old guard.

“I feel for you, man. It can’t be easy. But I have faith that you’re going to do a great job. You just have to work on your media persona,” I say, since he’s not known for being a smiley-faced favorite among reporters.

He sneers, then narrows his eyes. “That’s going to be one tough task. Last time I sat down with a local sports reporter in Seattle it didn’t go so well.”

“Did he burn you?”

“More like stabbed me in the back, made shit up and totally invaded my family’s privacy.”

“Ah, so that did it. That’s why you don’t like talking to the media?”

“I don’t have many warm fuzzies for the press.”

“I hear ya. It’s a balance, man. It’s part of the job though. Helps with sponsorships.”

“True. And my agent says the same. So I’m sure I need to work on it. Someday.” As he takes a bite of his lunch, his brow furrows. “Hey, if you said at the wedding that nothing was happening with Nadia, then why the hell are you counting down the time until the awards ceremony tonight?” He strokes his chin, like a detective cracking the case. “I sense a plot twist, Watson.”

“No twist. The answer is as simple as the evidence in front of you.”

“What evidence?”

I lean in closer, adopting a satisfied smile. “She’s prettier to look at than you.”

He lifts a forkful of his chicken salad. “No argument there. She’s gorgeous.”

I bristle, but don’t disagree.

Facts are facts.

Six hours later, I’m in my black tux. I pull on my new lucky socks, adjust my bow tie, and grab the corsage and boutonniere from the fridge.

I frown at the plastic container in my hand. This is cheesy, right?

Like extra-slices-melting-down-the-burger-patty levels of cheese.

Does she really want this for each event?

It’s kind of . . . teenager-y. It was kind of funny when it was required at the wedding.

But tonight? For a gala?

We don’t need to walk down Prom Memory Lane.

Fuck these flowers. Nadia is a sexy, sophisticated woman. I’m going to get her something to match her mystique.

I check the time on my phone then open the picture she sent me of her dress fabric, and then hightail it out of my house, googling the nearest stores as I go.

Bounding down the front steps, I reach the limo door just as the driver steps out.

“Good evening, Mr. Cash.”

“Hey, Jasper,” I say. “Can you take me to that store on Fillmore that sells those things women wear around their shoulders?”

“Wraps, sir?”

I snap my fingers. “Yep. Those.”

He doesn’t even blink—probably not even close to the strangest request he’s gotten. “Right away.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I slide into the back of the limo. When I click on the text from my cousin, attached is a photo of a cute blonde with a heart-shaped face.

Rachel: How about Caitlin? She teaches preschool! And fosters kittens! She’s soooooo good.

Crosby: Rach, I love you, but I’m not interested. Plus, I’m taking my old friend Nadia to the Sports Network Awards tonight.

Rachel: OMG!

Crosby: It’s nothing. I swear it’s nothing.

Rachel: Squee! I want a report!

Crosby: I will give you no such thing. But hey, maybe I should find a guy for you. Payback, cousin!

Rachel: You say that like it’s a bad thing, you setting me up with someone. I’m pretty sure you know some fabulous men. Ideally, I’d like a man who loves his job, likes to unwind with something quirky and creative, and would be passionately, madly devoted to me, talking and trying to make the best of a life together.

Crosby: I’m on it.

I tuck the phone into my pocket when we reach the store I passed the other week, the one with scarves and shit in the window.

“Be right back,” I tell Jasper, and race in. I show the dress fabric to a sales associate, and three minutes later, I walk out with a gift for my . . . old friend Nadia.

Hardly seems like the way to describe her though.

I’m back in the limo when Rachel replies with another message.

Rachel: But back to you and Nadia. All I will say is I’m so excited for you, but please be careful. You let people in too soon.

Crosby: Funny. Grant said that too the other day. I promise I’ll be careful.

But at Nadia’s door a few minutes later, I don’t know that I feel careful.

Hungry—that’s what I feel when she opens the door.

A dress the color of a rich merlot hugs her curves and shows off her fantastic breasts, which are dusted with some sort of shimmery powder. All that glimmering skin makes me want to haul her against me, bury my face in the valley of her breasts, and kiss