The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  “Ha.” Holden is also a good friend, despite the fact that he was just traded from Los Angeles to San Francisco to play second base for the city’s other major league team. The enemy team, so to speak. But rivals can be buds. “O ye of little faith.” I wiggle a brow at Eric. “It involves your sister.”

  He hums doubtfully. “How did Nadia get involved? She’s not here in San Francisco yet.”

  “Got ’em back right before Christmas. Camille was in Vegas then, and she loves magic, so I arranged for a trade. And Nadia had a good laugh when I asked her to score a pair of tickets for a new magic act in the city for Camille—the ransom price for my favorite socks.”

  Eric shakes his head, laughing. “Two tickets to a magic show for the woman who held your socks hostage? You could have bought another pair, you know. There’s this thing called the internet—you say, ‘Google, find me purple socks with giraffes on them.’”

  I scoff. “I wore these when we went to the playoffs two years ago. Don’t you remember my walk-off homer in game two? These are irreplaceable.”

  Eric rolls his eyes. “You are a special kind of superstitious. Also, you’re aware that you have the worst taste in women?”

  “Well aware. That’s my point, man. I can’t risk losing my lucky socks—or worse, my sanity—by getting involved with the wrong woman again. Camille was bad news. Daria was worse. They are all bad news, and I am drawn to bad-news ladies.” I punch his arm. “So, just like you asked me to stand up for you and be your best man, I need you to be my best bud and keep me far away from women. All women.”

  He strokes his chin, nodding thoughtfully. “So you need an accountability partner again? This is bigger than holding your phone for the day. You need me to be your sponsor?”

  A reel of images flickers before my eyes—my personal BuzzFeed list of my top dating woes. The stolen socks, the contraband dick pic, the missing car, the disappearing dough, and the Cabo vacation that nearly got me tossed into a Mexican jail.

  It’s the easiest answer I’ve ever given. “I do, man. I really do. I’m swearing off women for the next several weeks. Through spring training.”

  Eric lets out a loud, barking laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”

  I square my shoulders. “I can do it.”

  “I doubt it,” Eric says.

  “I have to do something. Women are my kryptonite, man.”

  He nods. “And you’re toxic right now.” His dark eyes hold my gaze, like he’s weighing whether I’m serious. “No take backs? No excuses?”

  I hold up my right hand and avow, “I am nuclear, and I need to change.”

  “Then I’ll be the rubber band on your wrist, and I’ll snap like a son of a bitch if you get near anyone.”

  “So I’m entering Ladies’ Men Anonymous through spring training,” I announce grandly.

  Staring in the mirror, I consider that challenge. I do like women.

  Scratch that. I love women.

  Serial monogamy is kind of my thing. I dig dating when I’m in town and when I’m out of town, dating during the season and during the off-season. I relish the company of women, and I’m a people person who loves getting to know someone.

  Can I seriously go a whole two months without a date?

  I draw a fortifying breath, staring at my reflection like I’m staring at the pitcher’s mound.

  Patience.

  I am the king of patience at the plate, and I know how to wait for my pitch.

  Fuck yes, I can do this.

  I’m a goddamn athlete. I’ve spent my whole life as a devotee of self-discipline—early morning workouts, diet regimens, training, training, and more training.

  If I can resist an outside pitch, I can resist women.

  “I can do it,” I tell Eric emphatically as Gabriel heads our way. “From now through spring training. I can’t risk losing another pair of socks, or someone snapping a shot of my prized baseball bat,” I say, gesturing to my crotch.

  “I’m holding you to it, bro.” Eric holds up a palm for me to smack, and I do.

  The shop owner reaches us, his lips twitching like he’s holding in a laugh, then he clears his throat. “Everything good?”

  I give him a suspicious stare. “You were laughing at me too,” I accuse, wagging a finger at him. “You don’t think I can do it either.”

  Gabriel adopts an expression as serious as a priest’s. “Every man has his Achilles’ heel.”

  Eric’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he chimes in, “Crosby, even Gabriel knows of your weakness.”

  “Seriously? How do you know this is my Achilles’ heel?” I ask Gabriel, indignant.

  Gabriel smiles sympathetically. “Remember when you and Holden were here in December buying tuxes for the New Year’s Eve gala?”

  “Yes,” I mutter. “One of my former Tinder dates called while we were here.”

  “And she said she’d lost her diamond earrings in your apartment,” Gabriel continues, even-keeled. “Said she needed them to pay for a medical procedure for her sister. Asked if you had seen them or could replace them.”

  Can I just grab a paper bag to cover my face? Chagrin, thy name is Crosby.

  “Dude,” Eric says, chiding me.

  “I didn’t fall for it,” I insist.

  Gabriel pats my shoulder. “You didn’t. Because Holden and I told you it was a known scam.”

  “You almost fell for that?” Eric asks incredulously.

  “Fine,” I grumble. “I have a soft spot. I wanted to help her.”

  “And we want to help you,” Eric says. “You need it, man. Not only are you a magnet for trouble, your heart is too squishy.”

  “That’s not a bad thing,” I say, but combined with my terrible taste, maybe it is.

  I toss up my hands in defeat. I’ve got nothing left in the protest tank because they’re both right. Time to man up. “Fine. I’m doing this. Whole-hog, cold-turkey, full-on woman ban through spring training. Hell, better make it until Opening Day.”

  The shop owner whistles.

  Eric claps.

  I take a bow.

  “You heard it here first,” Gabriel quips. “Would you like me to let Holden know when he stops by to pick up his tux later today?”

  I roll my eyes. “Spread the word, why don’t you? Hire a skywriter. Hoist a banner.”

  “We’ll all be your no-date sponsors, Crosby,” Eric says with a grin.

  That’s what I need.

  Backup.

  Accountability.

  My guys to have my back.

  “Fair enough. You can all call me out if I slip.”

  Eric stares at me. “No slipping.”

  “It’s for your own good,” Gabriel adds, then snickers under his breath, “Diamond earrings.”

  Eric shakes his head, amused. “Did you even sleep with the diamond earrings chick?”

  “No,” I practically shout.

  Eric holds out his arms in a wide there you have it shrug. I could caption this pic, I told you so.

  “I get it. She was never even in my apartment. But I felt bad for her.”

  “You’re a good one. That’s why you’re going to need a team of men to back you up. I want daily reports.”

  “And when he’s on his honeymoon, you can report in here,” Gabriel puts in.

  “Fair enough.” I’ve got a trainer for fitness, one who whips me into tip-top shape with ruthless sprints, squats, and crunches. I’ll enlist these guys as my no-love trainers. “Also, Gabriel, I’ll be sure to give your store a shout-out on my social media.” I run a finger along the suit jacket. “Because this tux is dope.”

  “Thanks again for finding these blue ones,” Eric adds, taking off his jacket to hang it up. “Mariana will be thrilled.”

  “Happy wife, happy life,” Gabriel says with a smile. “I’ll meet you at the register when you’re ready.”

  I shuck off my own jacket and undo my shirt buttons, turning to Eric. “Speaking of your nuptials, I don’t need to bring anyon
e, do I? Since obviously, with the detox, I’d rather go solo.”

  “I hear ya, but fair warning—Mariana does have a ton of single friends.” Eric taps his chin, lost in thought for a moment. “That might be like serving cupcakes at a meeting of the cupcake resistance. What do we need to do so you can just say no?”

  It’s a valid question. I take a deep breath and noodle on the dilemma. Then the answer arrives in a flash.

  I have a genius idea to avoid the cupcake temptation. But to pull it off, I’m going to need the help of Eric’s sister once again.

  2

  Nadia

  Who authorized all this stuff?

  We’re talking boxes, shelves, drawers, racks, and hangers upon hangers of clothes. Stacks upon stacks of sweaters.

  “My sweaters have been self-propagating. That’s the only explanation,” I declare from the middle of my walk-in closet.

  Scarlett studies the scene, humming thoughtfully before she answers, “It’s hard to argue with that.” She meets my gaze, her green eyes flashing question marks. “But how do you know your sweaters are replicating themselves and not just mating with each other when you’re not looking?”

  Snapping my fingers, I point at her. “Maybe it’s both,” I say, gesturing wildly to the clothes. All the clothes. “I can’t possibly have bought so many things. It’s impossible that I purchased so many shoes.”

  Though the evidence suggests otherwise—floor to ceiling shelves full of heels, sandals, flats, boots.

  My heart thumps harder as I gaze at my pretties. Is there anything better than shoes?

  But before I get lost in the beauty of all those pairs, I’ve got to get to the bottom of this bedeviling closet.

  I tap my chin. “I heard a podcast recently about possible scientific developments in nanotechnology involving machines and tubes and rays and stuff that would enable DNA and RNA to self-replicate. What if that happened to my clothes?” I run my hand along a fire-engine-red cashmere V-neck that I wore to a December meeting last year. It’s folded on top of a cherry-red twinset, on top of a cranberry turtleneck, perched on a burgundy crewneck. “Evidence, clearly evidence. What if my clothes are on the frontier of experimentation?”

  “Yes, that could very well explain your closet,” my friend says, then purses her lips together like she’s trying to rein in a laugh.

  “Right? But that’s not all.” I march out of the closet, ushering Scarlett with me. I point to the pile of silk, wool, and fleece ascending into a Mount Kilimanjaro of scarves on my bed—scarves I tossed there earlier while packing. I stab my finger in the direction of the offending mound, winding myself up even more, because, oh mama, I am wound tight right now. “I have sixty-seven scarves. It’s simply not possible that I purchased sixty-seven scarves. Either they’re replicating, or someone has been sneaking scarves in here to make me look like a shopaholic.”

  Scarlett doesn’t even try to stifle a laugh this time. “Would that person be you?”

  Aghast, I shirk back. Indignant. Utterly indignant. For . . . reasons. “No. Of course not. I would never do that. Because I can’t possibly own that many scarves.”

  “How do you know there are sixty-seven? Did you actually count the number of scarves?”

  “Yes! And I was annoyed that it wasn’t sixty-nine.”

  “Understandable.” She fingers the thin emerald-green silk number tossed jauntily around her neck. “I’d contribute to your pile, but alas, that would only get you to sixty-eight.”

  “Sixty-eight is a sad number, and an embarrassing one,” I say, flopping onto the bed, moaning like I’m a balloon running out of air.

  Petering out.

  Because of that word.

  Embarrassing.

  It cuts me to the core.

  I’m coated in embarrassment courtesy of one stinking email.

  An email that’s the sour cherry on top of my ice-cream sundae of worry.

  “But are you actually stressed about the number of scarves and shoes and sweaters you have?” Scarlett asks gently, setting a hand on my knee. “Or maybe, possibly, is something else going on?”

  There she goes, seeing through me like I’m made of Saran Wrap. Or maybe she knows me that well.

  Releasing a long, sad sigh, I pick up a scarf, dropping it listlessly around my neck. “I’m moaning in embarrassment. I have too much stuff. I simply can’t move all this from Las Vegas to San Francisco, and I’m gross for having bought so much. Just gross.”

  This minimalism fail is a fraction of the swirl of emotions tangling me up as I prepare to move back to my hometown to run the football team I own.

  Home, where I want to be.

  Home, with all its complications.

  A mother who wants me to find Mr. Right.

  An older sister who wants every damn person in a three-hundred-mile radius to love the team.

  A brother who worries I work too much, just like our dad.

  And a football team that I’ve moved back to its original city. A city full of angry fans who detest the franchise for moving to Vegas in the first place, and adoring fans with sky-high expectations because we’re finally coming home.

  Scarlett offers a hand and tugs me up. “Let’s tackle this one at a time. Let’s donate some of your clothes. That’s easy enough. I’ll help you sort it all.”

  “But you’re leaving soon. Let’s not waste our time sorting clothes and stuff.” I make a feeble protest, though I would love some help. “You’re going back to Paris soon. This will take a year.”

  “We can sort everything in a few hours. I’m highly efficient, and I want to help. This is how I want to spend my time with you. Moving is a big deal.”

  I try to inhale some of her steadiness, slightly more relaxed now that Scarlett has to-do-listed my clothes. “Winnowing down my wardrobe is a good idea.”

  “Yes. But is that going to settle your . . .” She lowers her voice, shifts her gaze from side to side, then whispers, “Nerves?”

  Ugh.

  Nerves.

  I hate them.

  Scarlett is my best friend, and though I don’t see her often, since she lives in another country, she knows my heart and I know hers. But she doesn’t know what I’ve been up to for the last year.

  She doesn’t know one of the secrets in my drawer of them.

  And this one aches a little bit today.

  I blurt it out. “I failed.”

  She rubs my shoulder in soothing circles. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  I head to the living room, waving her along. From the coffee table, I grab my phone. Cheeks burning, I click on my email and find the offending message from Samantha Valentine, otherwise known as the most successful matchmaker for discerning men and women in this city.

  I show her note to Scarlett.

  “Read it out loud,” I grit out. “Hearing the words again will remind me that I’m better off alone.”

  Scarlett sighs sympathetically then reads the note.

  Dear Nadia,

  Thank you again for your business. You’ve been a pleasure to work with, and I’m delighted to have had the opportunity to seek a match for you. You’re a wonderful, intelligent, vivacious woman, and I know you’ll find just the right man someday. However, your situation is simply too vexing, and I find that I’m going to have to bow out of playing your Cupid. You’re quite particular (as you should be!), but I also simply can’t seem to find a man who meets your criteria.

  You’re a wee bit direct, you like to tell it like it is, and you have, as it turns out, more money than most men I represent. That tends to scare men away. Perhaps consider donating your riches to charity? It might be easier to find a suitable mate then.

  Wishing you all the best,

  Samantha

  Scarlett flares her nostrils. Her eyebrows shoot to the stratosphere. “Seriously? A matchmaker just broke up with you, told you to donate your money, and then settle for a man who’s not man enough to handle you the way you are?”
r />   In a nutshell. “Yes! Can you believe it?”

  “Who the hell does she think she is? Are we still in the twenty-first century or have I traveled back in time? This is ridiculous and insulting, and I refuse to believe so many men are intimidated by successful women.”

  “I’d like to believe that too,” I say, gesturing broadly to encompass Vegas and everyone in it. “Only this city’s men chewed me up and spit me out like so much gristle.” And I’m annoyed to the bone about it, but also resigned. “I’m afraid she’s right though. Most men don’t want a woman who owns a football team. And it’s all mine now too.” I recently bought out my co-owner, Eliza. She wanted the funds to purchase a basketball team, so we did a deal, and now I’m the sole owner. “Samantha secured me six dates in a year. Six measly dates, and none of them resulted in a second or third. I am one hundred percent undatable.”

  “That’s crazy. What kind of man is intimidated by a successful woman?”

  “Let me share a few gems.” I count off on my fingers. “One, a well-known hedge fund owner said thanks but no thanks to a second date because he prefers to have the biggest wallet in the room. Two, a land developer said he had no interest in seeing me again as long as my title remained CEO. Three, a personal injury attorney, who has a gazillion dollars because he sues everyone and wins, said one date with me was enough to remind him he wants to wear the pants in his house. And this after I wore a skirt on our date too. My cute red pencil skirt with white polka dots. It was fashionable and adorable.”

  Her nose crinkles. “And he didn’t deserve it. Any man meeting you while you’re wearing that should thank the goddesses of luck for even giving him a shot at a brilliant, bold babe.”

  “Three Bs? Whoa.”

  She gives an approving nod. “You’re B cubed, and some man someday will recognize your exponential awesomeness. Then you can bestow upon him your red-and-white polka dots and he’ll fall to his knees in gratitude.”