Page 31 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
I drop my chin in my hand and study him, waiting, waiting.
He whistles, then huffs. “Fine, you win.”
I make a rolling gesture with my hand. “Spill. What’s the tea, as the kids say these days?”
“I might have a solution to the GM situation. I’ve got some leads on a GM. Some nontraditional candidates.”
Color me intrigued. “Keep talking.”
With a satisfied glint in his green eyes, he says, “Word on the street is there’s a certain woman who rose through the ranks in Dallas and might fancy a post here.”
I sit up straight, excitement tripping through me. “Kim Lee?”
“The one and only.”
“She’s one of the highest-ranking female executives in the NFL. Hiring her as GM would be a huge coup. Plus, she’s brilliant.”
“Bloody brilliant, some might say.”
“Yes. Get her,” I say, then press my palms together. “Pretty please.”
“I’ll make a call. She’d be fantastic.”
“I’d tell you you’re my favorite person here, but . . .”
He scoffs, like that’s old hat. “I know that already. You tell me that all the time.”
“It’s true, plus you require compliments,” I say.
Dragging a hand through his dark-blond hair, he smiles in admission. “I do indeed. The lifeblood of anyone who is a sports exec is a thick skin and an obsessive devotion to praise,” he quips, adjusting his tie. The man is the definition of dapper—he wears three-piece suits every day to work, and the vest look is just so spiffy.
“Speaking of compliments, want to order some lunch and work on our plan for Kim?”
“As if I’d want to do anything else.”
We order in, devising a strategy, and the focus energizes me. Matthew too, it seems, which makes me happy, since he moved here even though the woman he was dating in Vegas didn’t want him to. “How’s everything with Phoebe?” I ask.
He heaves a sigh. “Good? Sort of? I think.”
I frown. “What’s wrong, friend? Is she having a hard time with you being here?”
“Seems she is. Every day we talk, she makes sure to let me know how displeased she is,” he says, then shrugs, chasing it with a sigh.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, a smidge of guilt wiggling around in me. “I feel responsible.”
“Don’t be sorry. I chose to move. Plus, you should be with someone who supports your career rather than holds it back.” He takes a beat, his lips curving into a grin. “Isn’t that what I told you last year when you went through your parade of horrid men?”
“Sons of mailboxes,” I say with a smile, thinking of Crosby’s saying.
Matthew furrows his brow. “Please tell me that’s not a new American saying I need to learn? I’ve barely come to terms with ‘balling,’ ‘chilling,’ and ‘slay.’”
“It’s something Crosby said to refer to the men in Vegas.”
He arches a brow. “Crosby Cash? The baseball player?”
“Yes. We went to my brother’s wedding together.”
“Oh, did you now?” His eyebrows shoot into his hairline.
“We’re friends,” I say, but I try to rein in the grin that comes with that.
“Right. Sure.”
“I swear,” I say, though the kiss didn’t feel friendly at all. “And we’re going to the awards gala this week.”
“Interesting,” he says, all catlike once again. “Very interesting.”
I wag a finger. “Don’t get any ideas about us.”
But truth be told, all the ideas about Crosby are mine.
Delicious, tempting ideas.
Ideas I want to act on.
Good thing I have a busy day with Matthew, rolling up our sleeves and making a plan for the next season.
At the end of the day, I’m kicking ass and taking names.
I don’t go home till well past ten, after a dinner with the city managers, where I lay the groundwork for expansion plans for the stadium.
Home at eleven, I strip out of my clothes, remove my ring and watch, sink into the tub, and relax.
I’ve got this.
I can be Nadia Harlowe, my father’s daughter by day, and Crosby’s plus-one by night.
13
Crosby
Send the runner home.
That’s the goal.
I curl a hand over Jacob’s shoulder as he digs a cleat into third base.
The batter at home plate takes a couple practice swings. “If he connects, you just go. Got it? Game is on the line.”
Jacob gives me a crisp, eager nod. “Got it, Coach Cash.”
I laugh. “Crosby. Just Crosby.”
Jacob flashes a smile at me. “Coach Cash.”
Across the diamond, Grant mans the first base, while our closing pitcher Chance waits by the dugout, watching the action in the final out in the final inning.
It’s pitcher versus batter, mano a mano. The fierce and mighty fourth grader goes into his windup and unleashes a wicked fastball, sending it right across the plate. The ten-year-old batter connects on the first swing, launching a screaming line drive.
My pulse spikes. “Go, go, go, go, go!”
But Jacob barely needs my direction. He’s tearing down the third baseline, hell-bent on crossing home plate. The ball screams past the shortstop, skittering across the grass, as Jacob hoofs it. I cup my hands in front of my mouth. “You got it! You got it! Just go, go, go!”
