Page 8 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
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 sketches air quotes.
I roll my eyes. “It’s not code for sex. I’ve known Crosby since he and Eric were ten and built dams in the stream behind our house in San Rafael. Since they were twelve, filming themselves with lightsabers doing Star Wars moves in the garage. That’s why it says ‘buddy up.’ I’m his buddy too.”
“Why are your cheeks flushing, then?” she asks, amused. No, utterly delighted.
I raise a hand to my cheek as if to hide the heat.
But it’s spreading.
“It’s just . . . hot in here,” I mutter.
Her eyebrows wiggle. Her lips twitch. “Is that so? Or is this Crosby a McHottie? I just can’t remember from the last time you mentioned him,” she says, egging me on. “Let me refresh my recollection of the man you’ve known for so long.” She taps around on my phone for a moment, then gasps. “Aha! He is!”
She shows me Crosby’s team headshot as if she’s never seen his image before either, but obviously I know what he looks like too. Heck, there are photos of him and Eric in our family home. Pics of Crosby, Eric, Brooke, and me. He’s a feature in our lives.
But damn, does he ever look good in his team headshot, with his ball cap on and his uniform snug across his broad chest, the short sleeves showing off those hard-won biceps and those pants hugging his muscular thighs.
My God, baseball uniforms are just delish.
Of all the sports uniforms, those are my favorite.
But the best part is he’s cracking a hint of a smile, his jaw is lined with his trademark stubble, and his blue eyes are sparkling with the promise of naughty secrets.
He’s got the whole sexy-athlete vibe working overtime.
And Scarlett knows it. “Have fun buddying up with the hottest player in Major League Baseball at your brother’s wedding.”
Buddies.
We’re just buddies.
That’s all.
As soon as she leaves, I pounce on my phone and call him back so fast.
“Hey, Wild Girl,” he says in a voice that makes me feel like he can deliver on the promise of those blue eyes.
3
Crosby
Wild Girl.
