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

or smooths my hair, and like I’d do the same for her.

So I do, tucking a chestnut curl behind her ear.

She raises her chin, her eyes meeting mine. A charge rushes through the air, but it’s not buzzing with lust this time.

It’s humming with . . . something else entirely.

She flashes me a soft smile. “You look good, Crosby,” she says, and her words send an unexpected tingle down my spine.

That tingle—it doesn’t feel sexual. It feels . . . warm, and I don’t know what to make of that either.

So, I offer her my arm, and she takes it. As we enter the gala together, my heart beats a little faster. A little harder.

A rhythm that’s less like we’re friends with benefits and more like that other thing.

The thing I don’t know how to name.

But it feels hopeful.

And it feels dangerous.

19

Nadia

An attendant scurries up, asking to take my wrap.

A private thrill rushes through me—my wrap.

My gift from Crosby.

“Thank you.” I hand it to her as she gives me a ticket, which I drop into my purse.

Next, a woman in a silver dress and cute red glasses strides over to us, an iPad in her hand.

She can only be a publicist.

“Hello, Ms. Harlowe and Mr. Cash. We’d love to take your photo on the red carpet.”

Crosby shoots her a smile, then me. “Of course.”

“That would be great,” I echo, though my shoulders tense briefly.

How will we look together with lights flashing?

In many ways, this picture is no different than the wedding photos from last weekend.

And at the same time, it’s a universe apart.

We just came together in the car.

Mouthwash and neatened hair aside, do I have an orgasm aura about me?

I want to lean in close to Crosby, to whisper, “Do I look . . . obvious?”

But then, I’m not sure I want to let on to him, either, that I’m still floating on a cloud of climax dust.

Just smile for the camera.

The silver-sequined, no-nonsense publicist guides us along the red carpet to a backdrop splashed with the Sports Network Awards logo.

A young photographer with a Russell Wilson charm greets us with a quick hello then lifts his Nikon. “Let’s get one of the woman who’s going to bring us a Super Bowl victory.”

I grin. “That’s the goal.”

He snaps a few shots of me. “Fantastic. And now one of the Cougars best known for . . .” He stops, flashes an evil grin at Crosby, and continues, “His long ball.”

Crosby rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Leo.”

The photographer shrugs. “I call it like I see it. But then, no one saw it. Such a shame.”

“Ah, you’re so sweet, Leo. Missed you so much,” Crosby says, smiling for the guy he clearly knows.

“And now how about a few of beauty and the beast together?”

Crosby points to Leo. “He’s a regular Seinfeld.”

“Hey, what’s the deal with dick pics?” the photographer asks, imitating the famous comic.

“I don’t know. Why don’t I send you one later?” Crosby fires back, and the barbs delight me, the way they juggle them like lit torches.

“Let the countdown begin,” Leo says, then gestures for us to move closer together. “There. Pretend you like him, Ms. Harlowe. Act like you can stand him.”

Laughing, I inch even closer.

He has no idea that I’m not playing make-believe at all.

Snap, snap, snap.

“Perfect. Just one more. Put your arm around her waist, Crosby. Sorry, Ms. Harlowe. I promise this will only hurt for a second.”

“No pain, no gain,” I say as we smile for the camera.

When he’s done, Leo waves us on. “Next season, I need you to go long more often. It’d help my fantasy stats,” he says to Crosby.

“Fantasy and you, Leo. The two go hand in hand,” Crosby says, then returns the guy’s wave.

As we enter the reception area, I say, “You two were friendly. How do you know him?”

“He’s a freelance photog. He snapped our team headshots last year. Leo’s a good guy. Takes the time to actually get to know everyone, which is why I can rib him like that,” he says.

I hum then nudge his elbow, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Hate to break it to you, but I think he did the ribbing, Crosby. And well too.”

He smiles in acknowledgment. “He did. But guess what? I got the last word. Or the last laugh, rather, since those pictures gave me another chance to get my hands on you.”

Sparks shimmy over my skin as we head to the bar.

Orgasm aura indeed.

The thing I like best about the Sports Network Awards is that it includes fans. Most awards galas are industry only—players, agents, owners, publicists, and so on.

But every year the sports network makes tickets available to a handful of regular folks, usually via charity auctions.

It gives the fete a different energy, makes it more real. Keeps you on your toes.

On one hand, a bunch of thirtysomething investment bankers dropped to their knees and gave me a Wayne’s World “We’re not worthy” welcome, thanking me for bringing the Hawks back to California. On the other hand, I was serenaded with John Denver’s “Fly Away,” the words changed to “Fly away, Hawks.” Message received.

The team is both loved and reviled.

That’s sports for you. Little else can engender such passion, and that passion is why I love my job.

Heck, it’s why I have a job.

“Safe to say it’s a love-hate thing here,” Matthew says, leaning casually against the bar as we snag a few minutes to chat post-serenade.

“Don’t I know it,” I say.

“But it’s all in a day’s work,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

“Exactly. It’s just part of the job. And that’s what we’re doing.”

“Speaking of doing,” he says, dipping his voice, “are you on the pull tonight?”

“What?” I whisper, shocked.

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come now, Nadia. We know each other well. You can’t fool me. There’s something happening with Mr. Interesting from the wedding. I saw the way you looked at him too when he presented an award earlier. So, is there?” he asks, with