Page 13 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
My breath catches. I’m nearly flush against a wall of muscle. His chest is so broad, so sturdy. I’m near enough for his scent to drift past my nose, and my nose likes the way he smells.
“So we’re sealing our bet with a hug instead of a handshake?” I ask, evening my tone. I don’t want to let on that this proximity is scrambling parts of my brain.
Parts I didn’t expect to be scrambled so soon.
“Hell yeah. Best way to bet.” Crosby wraps those major league arms around me, bracketing me in. I steal another inhale of that fresh scent of wood and freshly showered man, and my traitorous body does a salsa dance.
I sternly lecture all those tingles trying to take over my mind.
It’s nothing.
He simply smells good.
Intrinsically, objectively good, like a cologne ad in a magazine.
That’s it. He’s simply one of those eau de manliness spreads in GQ. You’d feel this way about any handsome man. It’s only logical, considering how long it’s been.
When he lets go, I punch him on the shoulder to keep us in the pals zone. “Then we’re on. One hundred dollars. But for the record,” I say, lifting my chin, “there’s nothing wrong with a man getting a little emotional about getting married.”
“Did I say there was?” he asks. Around us, guests mill about, lifting champagne flutes, catching up, snagging stuffed mushroom appetizers and avocado sushi from the waiters circling by.
“No. But you seem to be mocking him.”
“That’s literally my job as his best friend,” he deadpans.
I point to my chest. “Hey, that’s my job too, as his sister.”
He leans in, his face near mine, his voice turning a bit . . . naughty. “Then, should we spend the night mocking him together?”
That rumble in his voice makes the little hairs on the back of my neck rise, like they’re sashaying closer to him.
What is up with my body’s reaction to him? Settle down, hormones.
“I think we should definitely mock Eric,” I whisper conspiratorially. Talking about my brother has to alleviate these Crosby-induced heat flutters.
So that’s what we do during dinner—playfully mock my brother like we did when we were younger.
Trouble is, all this teasing—leaning close, whispering jokes, laughing together—brings back memories of growing up. Memories and emotions that I shelved, happy to ignore them.
Like the crush I had on him way back when.
Yes, that memory, which struts to the forefront of my mind and brings along with it little flutter kicks to join the tingles still ignoring my lectures.
These are the same flutters I felt for Crosby when he was my older brother’s best friend in high school.
You’re older now.
You’re not the sophomore to his senior.
You’re not the girl watching the prom king go to the dance with another girl.
I straighten my shoulders, letting all those old memories fall away. I don’t have crushes. No matter how good the crushee smells.
At the end of the meal, my brother stands, taps his glass, and clears his throat. “Here we go,” Crosby whispers in my ear, and I rein in the shiver.
“Thank you all for coming,” Eric says, smiling as he surveys the table. “It means the world to me to see so many of our friends and family here. I look around this room and know that I’m a man who wants for nothing.” He takes a beat though, licking his lips. “The only thing I’m missing is my dad.”
Eric’s voice cracks. I’m right on time, twenty seconds in, but I’m not enjoying victory. Too many hard emotions swell in me too.
My heart clenches, and grief tightens my throat. I cover my mouth, and Crosby reaches for my free hand under the table, squeezing it.
He’s quiet, but that squeeze speaks volumes. I know this is hard. I know you all miss him. I know you all wanted him to be here.
Eric goes on, and when he’s done, I turn to my seatmate and coconspirator, and say, “Thank you. And don’t worry about the bet. I’m not planning to collect.”
“You better,” he says with a sharp stare.
I shake my head. “I can’t. And you didn’t win, so it’s my call. Don’t try to negotiate with me.” I keep my tone soft but firm.
“Fine, then you’ll have to let me take you out to dinner sometime,” he says.
“Sounds like a deal.”
But not a date. Not between us. It can’t be.
As we make our way out of the rehearsal dinner, Crosby collects my jacket at the coat check then slides it onto my arms. “I’m picking up that corsage tomorrow, Nadia,” he says. “You’re going to look like a prom queen.”
I laugh. Laughter is safer than all these other feelings. “And you’ll look like the prom king you were.”
He shoots me that cocky grin that charms his fans. That charms me. “And together we’ll be wedding buddies.”
