Page 19 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
But even so, this is all fun and games.
No matter how sexy she is, we are just friends having a good time.
A damn good time.
I play along with the teasing mood, dipping closer. My nose brushes faintly across her skin. My eyes close. A rumble works its way up my throat, and my senses go haywire.
My fuses trip, nerves fraying like an electrical wire about to snap.
Nadia Harlowe smells better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.
And I don’t want this dream to end.
So I linger, my nose skating along the delicate skin of her throat, getting high off the scent of her.
Like a summer day, but with a hint of something floral under it.
Like a tropical bloom after a summer rainstorm, the kind of afternoon shower that leaves droplets of water clinging to your skin, roaming over soft, dewy flesh.
That’s what she smells like.
Like she’s wearing a bikini and a little sarong thing, like we’ve been wandering through the emerald-green gardens on Kauai, stealing kisses on a hot day as the sun beats down and we hunt for shade.
My mind is officially elsewhere. It’s in vacationland with Nadia. It’s in Lustville. In Fantasy Arena.
Isn’t this the problem? Isn’t this my kryptonite? The very thing I vowed to stop at the tux store?
But then, maybe it’s not.
Because Nadia and I aren’t the problem.
She’s not the type of woman I need to resist. She’s not an ex, she’s not bad news, she’s not trouble.
She’s the opposite.
A friend.
A damn good one.
And I can be pals with a sexy-as-sin woman. Doesn’t mean I’m caving.
In fact, I’m doing just fine on my diet.
Sure, my friend smells mind-bendingly delicious. But I’m not giving her the keys to my car, the code to my bank account, or any piece of my heart.
And boom. Done. Snapped myself out of a Nadia-induced trance just like that. By zeroing in on the friendship. I keep that up, doing my best impression of a cat hacking up a hair ball, Puss-in-Boots-in-Shrek-style. Fake retching, I cringe like I’m repulsed by her scent. “Yep, that’s it. You’re clearly anathema to men.”
She swats my shoulder with her bouquet. But I’m a fast motherfucker. Reflexes—I’ve got them.
I catch her wrist, the one without the corsage, circling my fingers around her. As my hand curls, her breath hitches. She swallows.
Ah, hell.
That’s too hard to resist. Even for a friend.
I plant a kiss on her wrist. Soft, gentle, and maybe with a hint of my tropical fantasies.
Then I meet her eyes. “My due diligence is done.”
“And what have you decided?” she asks, a little breathy, a lot sexy.
Without letting go of her beautiful brown-eyed gaze, I give her my honest assessment. “Men in Vegas have achieved top marks in the field of dipshittery. And I hereby welcome you to San Francisco on behalf of all the men in the city, such as myself, who were raised to appreciate smart, confident, outgoing, kick-ass, and gorgeous women.”
A blush travels slowly across her skin and up her chest, spreading twin spots of pink to her cheeks.
“Thank you, Crosby. I needed that. I truly appreciate that,” she says, her voice warm and affectionate. Then she takes a breath, seeming to center herself. She squares her shoulders, and I take that as my cue to let go of her wrist.
She taps my chest with the flowers. “And don’t forget, you owe me stories. I want to be fully entertained during the reception with all of your tales. I need to know all about your dating break. We’re buddies.”
Exactly.
We’re buddies.
She gets it. I get it. It’s all good.
I salute her. “Ready to entertain you,” I say, then her sister steps into my line of sight, waves her hand, earth-to-Nadia-style, then shoots us a stare. “Come on, lovebirds. It’s picture time,” Brooke says, her husband and daughter a few feet behind her.
“Lovebirds,” I whisper to Nadia, adding a scoff.
“That’s as ridiculous as goose biscuit pellets.”
We join the wedding party, and as the photographer snaps the first shot, I slide my arm around her waist.
It fits perfectly on the curve of her hips. So perfectly I don’t want to let go.
At all.
Not one bit.
And the wrecking ball of obvious slams into my gut.
I am insanely attracted to my best friend’s little sister.
But the corollary to that is that absolutely nothing is going to come of it.
I’m okay with that.
I’m okay with that.
I swear I’m okay with it.
7
Crosby
I’m heading to the reception when a voice booms from around the corner. “Number twenty-two. A word.”
That’s all I get before a jacket covers my head, arms wrap around my torso, and my world turns dark.
I’m jerked into what’s presumably a conference room in the hotel, but the lights stay off and the cover stays on, even after I’m led to a chair to sit in. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
