Page 51 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
It’s the what’s next moment. Nerves thrum through me.
“So,” he begins. “We have the golf thing this weekend. Before I jet off to Arizona.”
“Cactus league time,” I say, using the insider lingo, the term for baseball teams who do their spring training in Arizona.
“I’m leaving on Monday,” he says.
I try not to dwell on him leaving. Who cares that he’s leaving after all? He’s coming back. Spring training doesn’t last forever. Nor does friends-with-benefits, so there’s no need to be all moony.
“But there’s plenty of days on the calendar before then,” he adds, and it comes out like an invitation, a little flirty.
“So very true,” I say, waiting, hoping he wants the same thing.
He inches closer, dips his face to my neck, and breathes me in. I tremble as his nose runs along my neck, traveling up to my ear, where he nibbles ever so gently on my earlobe then pulls back. “I don’t want to wait till the golf thing to see you again.”
My heart tap-dances across a Broadway stage. “I don’t either.”
He murmurs as he brushes decadent kisses along my skin. “Invite me over tomorrow night, Nadia.”
My body is throwing an I’m ready parade. “Come over tomorrow,” I say.
He separates from me, his gaze roaming over my figure one last time. “I’ll bring dinner.”
“I’ll bring an appetite,” I say.
“I’ll see you at eight, then, Wild Woman.”
He returns to his limo and drives away, having bestowed a new nickname on me.
Am I a wild woman?
Maybe we’ll find out.
I can’t wait for tomorrow. Though, as I head inside, I’m also missing having him here tonight.
A lot.
21
Nadia
Brooke bats first, with a text message flashing like a neon sign as I apply makeup the next morning.
Brooke: Called it. Lovebirds. Like I said at the wedding.
What is she talking about?
As the new album from my favorite singer ever—Stone Zenith—blasts through my bathroom, I set down my mascara wand and click open the photo Brooke sent.
My chest flutters. My lips form a stupid grin.
“The Guy in the Picture” fills the bathroom, the love song echoing across the tiled walls as I stare at a shot of Crosby and me from the red carpet posted on the Sports Network Instagram feed.
I zoom in on the image, and a barrage of questions slams into me.
Was his hand really wrapped possessively around my waist like that?
Were his eyes staring at me like I’m the only woman for him?
Was his grin telegraphing how much he wanted to follow rule number one? To sleep with me?
My stomach sashays, then does a rumba. Maybe a samba too. Hell, it could be taking a Zumba class for all I know.
This photo is a damning piece of evidence that shows two people who are into each other. Really into each other.
Because I’m looking at him like he’s the only one I want with me.
Last night, tonight, any night.
My heart beats faster and music floods my ears as Stone reaches the chorus.
The song takes over my senses, lodges itself into my heart and mind.
Something is happening between Crosby and me.
Something that’s more than friendship.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
I’ve tried to deny it.
I’ve played the logic card.
But logic has slipped away, and emotions are dealing the deck now.
That man just does something to me.
Something that’s not only physical.
That’s why I want to see him tonight, why I want to have sex with him. Not because I’m horny, not because I’m friends with him, not because I’m attracted to him.
I’m attracted to him because I like him.
The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor with a bang.
With a loud sigh, I stumble back, grab hold of the wall, and proceed to freak the hell out.
For about ten seconds. Then I get my act together, pick up my phone, turn down the music, and dial Scarlett.
“Emergency,” I say the second she answers.
“What is it?”
“This,” I say, then send her the image. “Check your texts.”
A few seconds later, she says, “Ohhhh. That looks complicated.”
“I know,” I say, pacing to the tub, sitting on the edge, and dropping my head in my hand. “I think something is brewing . . . No, that’s wrong,” I say, quickly correcting myself.
I lift my face, inhale deeply, and lean on the boardroom side of me. The woman who speaks up.
“I don’t think—I know. I like him so very much.”
The admission is both a relief and a brand-new burden.
Scarlett’s words and tone are kind. “So, what are you going to do about this friends-with-benefits thing, then?”
It’s a great question. As I picture tonight, him coming over, us connecting, I can’t see a path to resistance. Not one I want to take. Once more, I go with the full truth. “I suppose I’m going to sleep with him, and deal with whether it’ll hurt my heart later.”
I can hear a sympathetic smile on her face when she says, “At least you have your eyes wide open.”
