Page 12 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
“Oh my God, I had no idea. Thanks for clarifying,” I add.
Eric raises his gaze ceilingward, then says, over-the-top aggrieved, “My fiancée, my older sister, and my younger sister give me a hard time every single day.”
“Of course we do. And you wouldn’t want it any other way,” I say, bopping his nose.
“Speaking of walking down the aisle, Mariana wants you and Crosby to walk together.”
That piques my interest.
Makes my skin tingle a little bit.
Just from the mention of his name.
Exactly the reaction I can’t have.
“Why’s that?” I ask, focusing on the wedding plan, not the tingles plan. “Crosby is the best man, and Mariana’s sister is the maid of honor.”
Eric holds up a making-a-point finger. “But Mariana’s sister’s husband is a groomsman, and Mariana thought they’d enjoy walking together, so she put you and Crosby together.”
I smile widely. “What Mariana wants, Mariana shall have.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the secret to a happy marriage. But,” he says, his tone downshifting to serious as we reach the exit, “no dating him.”
A cough bursts from me. “Did you seriously just warn me not to date your best friend? Doesn’t it usually go the other way around?”
Eric shakes his head, his dark-brown eyes intense. “Crosby is in time-out right now. I’m personally in charge of making sure all women stay far, far away from him.”
I scoff. “I have no interest in dating Crosby or anyone.”
That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.
“Good. Because it’s my duty to keep him on the wagon. No dating, no women, no nothing.”
“Trust me, not dating Crosby will be just like . . . how it’s always been. Crosby and I are friends.”
“Good. Then you’ll do your part to keep him woman-free too,” he says.
“Of course,” I say quickly, because he’s definitely a friend, so I’m definitely down with the program.
As we slide into the town car, I tell myself that heeding Eric’s warning will be as easy as a quarterback lobbing a pass to a wide-open receiver.
And the receiver running it in for a touchdown.
Except there will be no scoring with Crosby.
Mark my words.
At the night-before-the wedding dinner the next Friday, I walk into the private room at one of San Francisco’s swankiest celebrity chef restaurants, my eyes scanning the place for all the people I love—my mom, my sister, my brother, his bride, and all my extended family.
Warmth spreads through me at the sight of all this family. I say hi to my mom, sister, brother, and Mariana, looking gorgeous with her waves of brown hair, and her olive skin.
There’s no sign of Crosby, until a hand clasps my shoulder.
And the faint scent of pine mixed with soap wafts past my nose.
For a sliver of a second, I close my eyes.
Then I open them, turn around, and ignore the hell out of the swoopy sensations in my stomach.
Crosby’s here, looking as handsome as he did at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala.
But he’s always been handsome, and I’ve always handled it just fine.
Because we’re just friends.
“A hundred bucks says your brother’s teary-eyed by the end of the night when he gives his toast,” he says in that gravelly, sexy voice that sends a dangerous zing down my spine.
Zero in on the way we are.
“You’re already throwing down bets? The dinner hasn’t even started.”
He lifts a shoulder, all casual and confident. “I know your brother well.”
“As do I. So why would I bet against him?”
Crosby’s blue eyes gleam with mischief. “How about we lay down a bet on how long into his speech it takes for him to tear up?”
“You’re so cruel,” I say with mischievous delight, then lower my voice. “But I love it.”
I look at my watch, a slim platinum band that my father gave me when he asked me to take over the team. My heart clenches as I hear the echo of his voice, the somber intensity in his request, and the inscription I read daily. It’s your turn.
I wear a ruby ring he and my mom gave me too, a gift when I graduated from my master’s program. They remind me of him, of them, of their love.
I wish he were here tonight.
But if he were, he’d want us all to have fun. To enjoy friends and family to the fullest.
That’s what I vow to do.
I raise my chin, dig into the analytical portion of my brain, and lay down my bet. Bets are fun. Bets are friendly. “Twenty seconds.”
Crosby’s grin goes crooked. “You don’t have a lot of hope in your big brother.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who’s to say that’s not hopeful? Maybe I like his sweet and soft side.”
“Fair enough. But I’m going with forty seconds,” he whispers.
I offer him a hand to shake. He takes it, then he jerks me closer so I’m inches away. “How about a hug, Wild Girl?”
