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

Or countless shoes.

I need to shed the reminders of my datelessness.

Decisively, I snap, “You know what? Screw Samantha Valentine. I don’t need a man. My job is to bring the Lombardi Trophy to the Hawks.”

Scarlett waves imaginary pom-poms. “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Nadia!”

I thrust a hand in the air like an orator. “I’m going to San Francisco embracing singlehood. I’ve tried dating for the past year, but I’m moving on. I have bigger fish to fry,” I declare. “And it shall begin with a culling of the clothes.”

“Brava,” Scarlett says, clapping.

Emboldened by her friendship and by my newfound determination, I saunter into my bedroom, tossing my phone on the edge of the bed then heading for the closet, where I grab a pair of black heels. “Shoes are only a sublimation. Shoes are better than necklaces, better than earrings, better than sex, or so I’ve heard, but it’s time to say goodbye.”

Scarlett clucks her tongue. “Hmm. I’m going to have to disagree on that last one. But regardless, let’s donate that pair of heels.” She motions to a pair of silver heels with a slim strap. “How about those too? They look brand-new, but I was with you when you bought them a year ago. Have they even been worn?”

I square my shoulders, owning it. “I bought those as solace after Samantha told me the land developer also didn’t care for me having—gasp!—opinions.”

“Opinions are sooo dangerous,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “Just keep them to yourself, you pretty little thing.” She tucks the silver shoes under her arm and points to a pair of red stilettos that look fresh out of the box. “What’s their story?”

“If memory serves, I purchased those shoes after my fifty-ninth dateless night in a row. That was the lull between the quit your job guy and an off-the-Strip casino owner who wanted to know if I would use a sperm donor if I didn’t find a man soon.”

My friend’s jaw crashes to the floor, then the one below it, maybe even to the underground parking garage of my skyscraper. “Please tell me you put him in his place. Please, please, please.”

My lips curve up in a grin. “I said, ‘If I do, I’ll be asking for a man with a high IQ and a big heart. Basically, the opposite of you,” I say with fiendish glee. “I came up with that on the spot.”

“You zinged a deserving target. Nice.” She frowns in disgust, shaking her head as she adds the red heels to the donation collection. “And these are a definite donation. We’re getting rid of all the pity shoes, because there is no pity needed in your life.”

When we’re done, the pile on my bed has grown ceiling-high, a mountain of donatable goods.

“This is good,” Scarlett says. “You’re cleaning house. Starting fresh.”

Buoyed by her support, I nod enthusiastically. “I’m going to San Francisco ready to conquer the world of football and franchises and getting back to the Super Bowl. I don’t care about dating. I don’t care about anything but a few pairs of shoes for the events I need to go to. I will take the city by storm, bring home the Lombardi Trophy, and do my father proud.”

She grabs her phone, clicks on her music app, and belts out the first anthemic notes of Beyoncé’s “Run the World” as it blasts through my penthouse.

We rock out to the woman-power anthem as we scoop up my clothes, shoes, scarves, and purses, folding them neatly, then tucking them into shopping bags to take to Dress for Success, a fantastic non-profit that helps women get back on their feet with the right clothes for job hunting.

When the tune ends, I’m ready to state my intention with Scarlett as witness. “From now on, no more matchmaking, no more shoe sublimating. There’s just the team.”

“I’m rooting for you,” she says. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Maybe, but there’s one thing I need to sort through still.

“Do I have to get rid of my large family of vibrators?”

“Hate to break it to you, but no one takes those for donation,” she says in a stage whisper.

I roll my eyes. “I know that. I’m simply wondering if I should cull them as part of this house cleaning?” But I dismiss that crazy thought stat. “Pretend I didn’t say that. I would never do such a terrible thing. Let’s go sort the little darlings.”

Scarlett gives me a look that says oh no you didn’t.

“News flash. I wasn’t asking you to touch them,” I say.

“News flash. I wasn’t going to touch the vibrators,” she retorts.

I slide open the nightstand then pack up my friends. “I have a feeling I’m going to be needing these the day I arrive.” I raise my favorite pink rabbit in my right hand, and pledge, “I hereby declare my allegiance to vibrators and only vibrators. All of them. We have a polyamory thing going on.”

“A little reverse harem with your battery-operated friends?” Scarlett asks with a quirk of her brow.

“I am their queen, and they live to serve me.” As I pack the pink one, my phone beeps from the bed. “Can you grab that?”

She does and scans the screen. “Crosby. It’s a text.”

My lips curve up in a grin at the mention of my brother’s best friend. “Read it to me, please.”

She adopts a masculine tone. “Hey, Wild Girl, want to buddy up at your bro’s wedding?”

I laugh at her imitation. Crosby called in a favor a few months ago, and I was happy to help. He’s Eric’s friend, but I’ve always had a good time with him.

Her eyes twinkle as she meets my gaze. “Wild Girl? He calls you Wild Girl?”

I wave a hand dismissively. “He called me that when I was younger. He means nothing by it,” I say, even as my cheeks flush, even as my skin heats. “I’ve known him for years.”

“And he wants to ‘buddy up’?” She