The Rules of Friends with Benefits Read online

  The Rules of Friends with Benefits

  A Prequel Novella

  Lauren Blakely

  Little Dog Press

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  About

  The Rules of Friends with Benefits

  1. Nadia

  2. Nadia

  3. Nadia

  4. Nadia

  5. Nadia

  6. Nadia

  7. Nadia

  8. Crosby

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  About

  Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Blakely

  Cover Design by Helen Williams.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Big Rock Series

  Big Rock

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  Full Package

  Joy Ride

  Hard Wood

  * * *

  Rules Of Love Series

  The Rules of Friends with Benefits (A Prequel Novella)

  The Virgin Rule Book

  The Virgin Game Plan

  The Virgin Replay

  * * *

  The Guys Who Got Away Series

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

  The What If Guy

  Thanks for Last Night

  * * *

  The Men of Summer Series

  Scoring With Him

  Winning With Him

  * * *

  The Gift Series

  The Engagement Gift

  The Virgin Gift

  The Decadent Gift

  * * *

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  One Night Only

  One Exquisite Touch

  * * *

  MM Standalone Novels

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  * * *

  The Heartbreakers Series

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  Once Upon a Wild Fling

  * * *

  Boyfriend Material

  Asking For a Friend

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  One Night Stand-In

  * * *

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  * * *

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  * * *

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  * * *

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  * * *

  Seductive Nights Series

  Night After Night

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  One More Night

  A Wildly Seductive Night

  About

  A good girl follows the rules. So does a smart woman. That's why I've resisted my brother's best friend for years.

  * * *

  Fine, fine. Maybe the sexy, charming confident baseball player hasn't given me a reason to suspect he's thinking the same flirty, dirty thoughts as I am.

  * * *

  But then he starts showing up by my side at sporting events. At galas. And his eyes are saying all sorts of flirty, dirty things.

  * * *

  Like maybe we should cross the friends line and head right into benefits?

  The Rules of Friends with Benefits

  A prequel novella

  By Lauren Blakely

  * * *

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  1

  Nadia

  Some girls dream of jewelry, but the only thing that Tiffany’s has made that really, truly thrilled me is a seven-pound sterling silver football.

  I never had a horsey phase, never wanted to be a rock star, a teacher, a president, or a princess.

  My one dream has always been to run a football team.

  The sport is in my blood and my bones. Hell, my heart is probably football-shaped and stitched like a regulation ball.

  Same shape as the top of the trophy I can’t keep my hands off. There’s only one person in the Hawks’ executive offices with me, and I’m not going to let him keep me from stroking all twenty-two inches of this shiny silver beauty, but especially where my name is engraved.

  “You’re going to wear that smooth if you keep rubbing it that way.”

  I look over at Crosby.

  The boy next door when I grew up in California.

  My brother’s best friend, and a good one to me as well.

  One hell of a football fan too.

  He holds out both hands, wiggling his fingers. “Come on. Let me hold it.”

  I clutch it to my chest like a baby. “Not yet. I need to pet it some more.”

  He laughs. “Sure. You do that. Give it a good spit shine while you’re at it.”

  I waggle my brows and nod at his hand. “Is that what you do with your World Series ring?”

  He nods. “And with my MVP trophy. Obviously.”

  I run my fingers down the trophy one more time. It’s been quite a week, and I still can’t quite believe that my team won it. And in my first year as the owner of the Las Vegas Hawks. I want to show off the spoils of victory—aka this tro
phy—to everyone in my life.

  Like this handsome, fantastic man who came to visit me in Las Vegas.

  Okay, fine. He’s here to play poker and hit the slots with some friends and teammates. But he took the time to swing by the stadium, and now I’m taking the opportunity to be obnoxious about my new favorite thing.

  As one does.

  I carry my precious to the couch in my office. Sinking onto the soft leather, I pat the cushion next to me. “Come join me. We will worship it together.”

  He flops down, runs his hand over the gleaming sterling silver, and lets out a gravel-throated purr. “Meow. Oh, it feels so good,” he says.

  I match his tone, going all sultry. “I know. I just want to keep running my hands over it all night long.”

  “That might be the dirtiest thing ever said about the Lombardi Trophy,” he says with a chuckle.

  I rest the base on my knee so we can both keep fondling it. “Oh, I doubt that.”

  Maybe by accident, his forefinger brushes mine, skimming along it and slowing. As he slides past my second knuckle, a spark runs up my arm.

  Oh.

  Crosby’s touch kind of makes my skin sizzle.

  Not just kind of, but definitely. Deliciously.

  Inconveniently.

  I hazard a glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we talk about the thrill of winning, trying to gauge whether he felt an answering spark when he touched me, or if he even realized he did it.

  We’ve known each other since we were young, and this isn’t the first time I’ve felt a little chemistry between us. Like when we were home from college, and when we’ve run into each other in the time since.

  Though “chemistry” implies a mutual reaction, and I’m not sure about that. Just because I get tingles doesn’t mean he does.

  And so, I let the moment pass, nudging his elbow. “Why don’t you let me take you out for lunch?”

  “Oh, a celebration. I approve.” He rubs his palms together. “Can we go to the fanciest restaurant on the Strip?”

  “Obviously. My treat.” I stand and go to set the trophy on the shelf behind my desk, where it can awe visitors and intimidate rivals. When I turn back, Crosby is on his feet too, arms folded. Even in long sleeves, his biceps are impossible to ignore. So I don’t ignore. I ogle. Surreptitiously, of course.

  “I wasn’t angling for a free lunch,” he tells me.

  I arch a teasing brow. “No? I think you kind of were.” I walk over and link my hand through his arm. Because he may be my friend, but his flexed bicep is almost as impossible to resist as my trophy. “Just admit it, and I’ll let you pick the spot.”

  He shrugs amiably. “I’m not going to argue with the woman who just let me fondle her silver football.”

  That’s Crosby—easygoing and easy to talk to, and easy to fall back in step with no matter how long it’s been since I’ve last seen him.

  Laughing, I tug him toward my office door, and we make our way out of the stadium together, where we slide into my limo and head across town and along the Strip.

  “So, tell me how things are in San Francisco,” I say as I angle toward him in the back seat.

  “San Francisco said to tell you she misses you. She wants you to come back,” he says, pouting.

  “I miss San Francisco too,” I say, and I miss my father. He passed away recently, leaving his majority stake in the team to me. Funny that Crosby mentions bringing the team home – but I’ve had so much to do running it that moving it isn’t top of the list. “But you can’t fit a football team in a U-Haul.”

  He chuckles at whatever image that brought to mind. “Okay. I admit you’d have more than the average person to pack up and move.”

  “And that’s not even counting my shoes.”

  “Come on.” He nudges my knee with his. “You don’t have to crush my dreams without even pricing moving companies.”

  I furrow my brow. “You can’t be serious. Logistics aside, the Hawks are based here. I can’t just up and move the franchise, and San Francisco to Vegas is a hell of a commute.”

  He leans forward and rests his hand on my leg as if to make sure he has my attention. “I maintain that Nadia Harlowe can do whatever she sets her mind to.” When he sits back, his hand slides away. My hand drifts down to my thigh and smooths over the cool spot where his warmth had been.

  “I admit though,” Crosby continues, stretching his arm out along the back of the seat, “that’s a little more complicated than transferring to a branch office. I’m just a selfish bastard who thinks it would be fun if you were there.”

  He shoots me a crooked grin. This man deals them out like they’re playing cards—all of them aces. His smile is winning. Magnetic. Irresistible.

  But then, that’s kind of how I would describe Crosby. Blue eyes the color of the sea, dark hair, so soft and wavy, and a smile that absolutely makes your heart flip—he could make you say yes to nearly anything.

  When we were growing up, he was my brother Eric’s friend, but Eric wasn’t always around, and Crosby liked to always stay busy.

  He’d ask me to join him in a game of baseball. I’d pitch, and he’d catch.

  He’d convince me to go skateboarding. I’d show up with my helmet and knee pads, ready to fly downhill.

  But then I’d ask, “Do you want to go to a concert?” and he gave his yeses just as easily.

  We’ve always enjoyed each other’s company, in sync somehow. It’s actually surprising that nothing romantic has ever happened between us.

  But he’s a guy who attracts women easily, and is often seeing someone.

  And I’m a woman with a lot of irons in the fire, and am often busy with work.

  And as Crosby pointed out, we don’t live in the same city.

  So I always make the best of our time when our paths cross.

  As friends.

  Only as friends.

  We arrive at the restaurant and grab a table, discussing the menu (enticing), whether we should actually get the most expensive thing (we don’t), and save the serious catching up until the server has taken our orders.

  “Forget how San Francisco is,” I say when we’ve given over our requests and our menus. “Tell me what’s up with Crosby Cash.”

  “Well, spring training starts in a few more weeks,” Crosby says, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I have a good feeling about this year.”

  “Then we should toast.” I raise my water glass. “To another fantastic year for the Hawks, and a marvelous one for the Cougars.”

  He lifts his glass too, and we clink.

  Over our lunch, we chat, laugh over shared memories of high school, compare notes on our favorite new music, and discuss whether we should buy him some new lucky socks, since he has a thing for socks. We taste each other’s entrées and share a dessert that he eats most of, and I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal so much.

  I’ve definitely never been on a date where I’ve been this at ease, or where the conversation flowed so freely. Maybe it’s because of our shared experience, or maybe it’s because this isn’t a date and there aren’t any expectations, that I can relax.

  We’ve got a good thing going on. When we’ve finished up and made our way to the front to meet my driver, Crosby leans in, brushes his lips to my cheek, and says, “I should go join the guys.”

  “You should,” I say. We’re already on the Strip, not far from where he’s staying at The Extravagant.

  He seems to linger a little bit when he hugs me, holding me close, murmuring how good it is to see me, then running his hand lightly over my hair.

  My stomach flips.

  That was not a friends-only thing. But was it deliberate?

  Does he know how good that felt? Did he mean for it to?

  Impossible.

  He clearly meant nothing.

  He’s simply friendly.

  Crosby, the outgoing guy, the affable guy, is a tactile guy too. I’m sure he hugs a lot of women—he’s alwa
ys involved with a gorgeous one, and he’s never ignored that I’m female. I love that he can be friends with a woman without pigeonholing her as “just one of the guys.”

  Some part of my brain helpfully points out that he’s not involved with any gorgeous women right now.

  That changes nothing.

  I kick all these flickers of feelings to the back of my mind, where they’ve had their own shelf since high school, and make them stay there.

  Even when Crosby presses one more kiss to my cheek, then says, “It was so good to see you, Nadia.”

  He loosens his arms, and I slide out of them. “I’m so glad you called while you were here,” I tell him sincerely.

  With that crooked smile, he heads down the hotel concourse, turning back before he’s out of sight to wink and wave.

  I don’t know what to call what I’m feeling. Can I say I’ll miss him when I don’t see him that often? Or say that I’m nostalgic for what-might-have-beens?

  The latter would be pointless.

  The former, well, I’ll just have to make a point of meeting up when our paths cross.