Page 18 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
I scratch my jaw, furrow my brow, and part my lips, trying to figure out what to say, because this is insane. “How is that possible?” I ask, taking my time with each word like I’m speaking in a foreign language, but this is foreign to me. And hell, it ought to be foreign to everyone.
I eye her from stem to stern. From knee to breast.
She’s gorgeous and brilliant and fascinating.
She clears her throat. “My eyes are up here, Crosby,” she says, pointing to those big brown irises that are like pools of the warmest color, with gold flecks at the edges, drawing me in.
Busted.
But I’m cool with that.
It was simply a friendly assessment of the sitch.
“And they are a beautiful brown. I was just doing my due diligence. Assessing everything that you just said. Trying to figure out what kind of fucktangular insanity is happening to the men in Las Vegas?”
“Actually, it’s frocktagonal insanity, but to-may-toe, to-mah-toe.”
I laugh. “I forgot—you don’t swear.”
She flutters her lashes. “I’m such a good girl.”
Is she though?
My mind wanders once again to images of this good girl being bad. Shake it off, man. “Of course you are.” I narrow my eyes, goading her. “But someday I’ll get you to swear.”
“You’ll have to work really forking hard at that,” she says, all saucy as she throws down a challenge.
“You’re on,” I say, offering her a hand to shake on it.
She shakes back, then gestures to my eyes. “So that whole slide-your-gaze-up-and-down is due diligence? Is that what it’s called?” Her lips corkscrew in an I’ve caught you smile.
I square my shoulders, owning it. “Yes. Indeed it is. I’m all about gathering empirical evidence. And I’ve gathered it with eyes, ears, and brain. You are a goddess, and the fact that men in Vegas do not know this leads me to arrive at only one conclusion. Men in Las Vegas are clearly douche trumpets.”
“I was going to go with dingle nuggets, but yours works too,” she says.
I snap my fingers. “Dammit.”
“Nice try though, getting me to cave,” she says in a sexy taunt.
“But is ‘douche’ actually a swear?”
“Would you say it in a boardroom?” she counters. “That was my father’s logic. If you won’t say it in a boardroom, don’t say it.”
“Ah, I don’t hang out in boardrooms. Locker rooms for this guy.”
“And boardrooms for this gal. So it’s ‘dingles,’ ‘forks,’ and ‘sons of a mailbox’ for me,” she says, tapping her chest. “Rather than ‘sons of you-know-what.’”
“That’s perfect—the men of Vegas are sons of mailboxes.”
She inches closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or have you considered I scare them off with my anti-man perfume?”
“Like mosquito repellent but for dudes?” I ask, like I’m processing this new development. Dipping my hand into the front pocket of my suit pants, I grab my phone, click on my Amazon app, then speak into it. “Alexa, show me anti-man repellent.”
The coolly robotic voice asks if I want mosquito repellent.
Nadia shakes her head, wagging her finger. “You’ve got to ask her for anti-man repellent on discount. Don’t you want a deal?”
I nod, big and long. “Yes. You know me so well.” I clear my throat and speak more slowly. “Alexa, show me your Deal of the Day anti-man repellent.”
“I did not understand. Please repeat that request,” the voice from my phone chirps.
“Hold on. I’ve got this.” Nadia leans in closer. “Show me douche biscuit repellent.”
The phone is quiet for a few seconds, then Alexa speaks. “Here are the results for goose biscuit pellets.”
I cringe, shuddering.
Nadia joins me, full-on horror-movie-style. “Who is buying goose biscuit pellets?”
“And are they for the goose or the eater of the goose?” I ask.
“Are they even organic?”
“Organic goose eggbeaters. Here are more results,” the phone voice chimes in, picking up on words we both said.
Nadia doubles over, cracking up. “I refuse to believe that’s a thing.”
“Alexa said it. You cannot argue with Alexa,” I say, turning off the app and tucking the phone into my pocket.
“I can, and I will,” Nadia says. “Especially since Alexa can’t find the anti-man perfume that I clearly bought on Subscribe and Save a few months ago. I mean, how else to explain my absolute terrible luck?”
“Want me to test your perfume? See if it works?”
“You’re not worried it might scare you away?” Her voice dips low, to a tone that suggests I’d be in danger if my nose goes near her.
“I’ve got this. Hold my beer,” I say, handing her an imaginary can.
I draw a deep breath, shake out my arms, and stretch my neck, limbering up like I’m going to battle.
She waggles her fingers by her neck and lifts her chin, giving me room. That is a gorgeous image—her leaning in, offering her neck.
Setting a hand on the bare skin of her arm, I congratulate myself for finding an excuse to move closer to her.
