Page 27 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
“Did you really need to bring Vanya here?” I’d hissed at him, tossing an acrid stare her way as we moved to the corner of the auditorium, the tassel from my cap falling in my eyes.
“Sweetheart, that isn’t a nice way to talk to the woman I’m going to ask to marry me.”
Vanya clutched his arm and shot me a simpering smile.
I hated her on sight. Hated her white-blonde hair, her stick-thin body, her Barbie-pink lipstick.
“We’ll become friends, Reese,” she cooed.
I rolled my eyes all the way to France. “We will never be friends.”
“Reese, give her a chance, please,” he pleaded as he pulled me aside after telling her he’d be back in a minute. “I think she’s the love of my life.”
“Dad, you say that about every woman. Every woman you cheated on Mom with,” I pointed out.
He blanched like I was crazy, like I was a revisionist historian. “That’s not true,” he said. “I didn’t cheat on your mother. I fell in love with someone else.”
“That’s literally cheating,” I hissed.
“It’s not the same.” That’s my dad—he could massage anything to fit his point of view. “So, please, try to be nice to Vanya tonight.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I did not, in fact, do my best. I ignored her at dinner.
My father and I barely spoke when I went to college, with me sending occasional emails as he moved to Atlanta with Butterscotch, or Capricorn, or whoever his next woman was. Not Vanya though. He split from the supposed love of his life a few weeks after I met her.
Then, sometime in the last few years, he met Becky, and now they’re coming home.
“So, what brings him back to San Francisco?” I ask Mom.
“I think Becky has a job in the city. She works for some biotech company.”
My jaw tightens, and my shoulders tense. This is how I always react to my dad.
But I try to put him out of my mind.
My dad is who he is. I am who I am.
He’s barely in my life at all.
I plaster on a smile. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Now, when I get back, I want diner food first. A salad and fries.”
She laughs. “That’s not diner food.”
“In my book, it is.”
On the flight home the next day, my mind returns to my dad, to Becky, and to the invitation I suspect is winging my way.
Odd that after all the affairs and girlfriends, he never fathered more children. Now, I’m nearly a quarter century, and I’m going to have a half-sibling.
My gut churns with the weirdness of it all.
With music blasting from my phone, I turn to the window, resting my cheek against it, staring at the sea far below.
I’ll have a half brother or half sister.
It’s a strange notion, and I’d rather not think about my dad.
My brain helpfully, or not so helpfully, replaces those thoughts with images of Holden.
From time to time over most of the last two years, I’ve meandered to the man who captivated me. I’ve checked in on his career every few months. He’s taken baseball by storm, jacking in runs, fielding like he has a golden glove, and staying out of the public eye.
I’ve found little on him, but that’s okay. I never dig for long, since I don’t want to be a stalker.
A virgin stalker, at that.
I didn’t meet anyone abroad. No surprise—I didn’t go to South America to find a boyfriend.
But a rising baseball star? Even for a guy who’s not into hookups, I bet he’s had women by the truckload since our night together.
Hell, he’s probably even paired up. I bet he’s found a girlfriend.
Maybe even a wife.
I close my eyes, willing the thoughts of him to quietly slink off.
But they don’t.
They set up camp.
When I land and my cell service returns, I do something I haven’t done in months.
I google Holden Kingsley.
Present Day
End of March
10
Reese
I launch myself at Tia, hugging the hell out of her, octopus-style, in her doorway.
And I squeal. Shamelessly.
She squeals too, and we become a cacophony of oh my God, I missed you so much, it’s so good to see you again.
When we eventually tear ourselves apart, I park my hands on my hips. “You’re in so much trouble.”
She jerks her head back. “How did I get in hot water while you were out of the country?”
“You’re in trouble for not telling me vital facts.”
She holds up a stop-sign hand. “You’re renting the studio next to my boyfriend and me, and the first thing out of your mouth is that I’m in trouble?”
“Yes. Also, say hi to Wayne, wherever he is.”
“I’ll pass on your regards to my man.” She rolls her eyes. “Now, please let me know what I allegedly did.”
As she shuts the door, I set down my bag and walk into the tiny living room of her home in Hayes Valley, which is owned by her aunt, a wildly successful art dealer in the city.
