The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) Page 3

  I crack up at the image she paints. But soon my laughter fades and my shoulders slump again. “Maybe someday.”

  I’m back to latent frustration, topped with a dollop of where-did-I-go-wrong. Samantha’s note was like a shot of un-confidence. “And look, I know this is a mega first world problem. Don’t cry for me, Argentina, and all that. But it seems men don’t want to date a woman who makes more than they do, or who is used to ordering men around. I have fifty-three guys on my active roster, but sheesh, it’s not like I’m a dominatrix.” I screw up the corner of my lips in a rueful half smile. “At least, I don’t think so. You probably need to have sex to be a dominatrix. But even so, I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

  “Nothing wrong with it if you are,” Scarlett says. “But I don’t think you’re one either.”

  “Exactly. I’m a virgin.” It’s not a secret with Scarlett. This isn’t my woe-is-my-lonely-hymen speech. My friend knows me, knows why I’ve waited. My virginity isn’t an albatross, simply a choice that I made. “But I wasn’t using a matchmaker to ditch my V card. I was using one because I wanted some companionship. But alas, I’ll be heading to the West Coast virginity intact, and that’s fine.”

  “Of course it’s fine. You’ll be ready when you’re ready.”

  Since it seems to be my confessional hour, I sweep my hand out to indicate the scarves in the bedroom and the shoes beyond. “So that’s why I have all this stuff. I went a little shopping crazy in the last year. Every time I was dateless, every time a date flopped, every time Samantha emailed to say she was ‘still working on it,’ I bought shoes. Or scarves. Or sweaters.” I dip my head, frowning. “I’m the worst.”

  Scarlett wraps her arms around me. “You’re not the worst. But I think you’re particularly stressed out today over everything going on—the move, your dad’s legacy, and your expensive, elite matchmaker being a useless twit.”

  She’s right. Moving is stressful in itself, but add in my belief that this was my dad’s dying wish and my dating woes, and I’m extra twisted and tangled up.

  I don’t expect anyone to feel sorry for me. I’m an heiress after all. I have wealth and material riches, and I’m very grateful for that. But I want to do right by my dad.

  I want to do right by the fans.

  And someday, yes, I want what my parents had—love, happiness, respect, partnership.

  The trouble is, all those desires are slamming together like carnival bumper cars.

  And that was before Samantha’s smackdown made me a woman on edge.

  I’m uprooting my life from Las Vegas. Not only do I feel it’s what my father would have wanted, it’s what I want. My father’s biggest regret was moving the team away from his hometown. He missed the San Francisco fans, and he wanted his wife—my mom—to be happy. Her entire family is from the Bay Area, so he vowed to return the team there so she could be near her brother and sisters again.

  Then, he fell ill so I’m finishing the job for him. The job of bringing the Hawks home. After he died, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to move it back, so I kept the team in Vegas. But when I saw my mom at my brother’s engagement party, everything clicked. And I knew it was time to get out the U-Haul.

  I worked my ass off campaigning to move the team, to win approval from the NFL and the city. Plus, it makes business sense. Attendance has been dipping here because Vegas is the land of endless entertaining distractions.

  I pulled it off, and now I’m bringing the Hawks to a city where the team is both hated and loved.

  But at least I can see my mother, sister, and brother more regularly.

  That is, when I’m not working. I have a ton of events already lined up in San Francisco, back-to-back meetings with the city regarding tax breaks, appointments with legal counsel over business operations, and interviews with a slew of candidates for the position of general manager.

  Can you say busy?

  I want to do my father proud. When he died, he split his businesses down the middle, leaving them to his three kids—Eric runs the private equity firm, Brooke oversees the real estate holdings, and I’ve got the team.

  I need to go to San Francisco ready to tackle the job and that’s all. I don’t need sixty-seven scarves to pull that off.

  Or countless shoes.

  I need to shed the reminders of my datelessness.

  Decisively, I snap, “You know what? Screw Samantha Valentine. I don’t need a man. My job is to bring the Lombardi Trophy to the Hawks.”

  Scarlett waves imaginary pom-poms. “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Nadia!”

  I thrust a hand in the air like an orator. “I’m going to San Francisco embracing singlehood. I’ve tried dating for the past year, but I’m moving on. I have bigger fish to fry,” I declare. “And it shall begin with a culling of the clothes.”

  “Brava,” Scarlett says, clapping.

  Emboldened by her friendship and by my newfound determination, I saunter into my bedroom, tossing my phone on the edge of the bed then heading for the closet, where I grab a pair of black heels. “Shoes are only a sublimation. Shoes are better than necklaces, better than earrings, better than sex, or so I’ve heard, but it’s time to say goodbye.”

  Scarlett clucks her tongue. “Hmm. I’m going to have to disagree on that last one. But regardless, let’s donate that pair of heels.” She motions to a pair of silver heels with a slim strap. “How about those too? They look brand-new, but I was with you when you bought them a year ago. Have they even been worn?”

  I square my shoulders, owning it. “I bought those as solace after Samantha told me the land developer also didn’t care for me having—gasp!—opinions.”

  “Opinions are sooo dangerous,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “Just keep them to yourself, you pretty little thing.” She tucks the silver shoes under her arm and points to a pair of red stilettos that look fresh out of the box. “What’s their story?”

  “If memory serves, I purchased those shoes after my fifty-ninth dateless night in a row. That was the lull between the quit your job guy and an off-the-Strip casino owner who wanted to know if I would use a sperm donor if I didn’t find a man soon.”

  My friend’s jaw crashes to the floor, then the one below it, maybe even to the underground parking garage of my skyscraper. “Please tell me you put him in his place. Please, please, please.”

  My lips curve up in a grin. “I said, ‘If I do, I’ll be asking for a man with a high IQ and a big heart. Basically, the opposite of you,” I say with fiendish glee. “I came up with that on the spot.”

  “You zinged a deserving target. Nice.” She frowns in disgust, shaking her head as she adds the red heels to the donation collection. “And these are a definite donation. We’re getting rid of all the pity shoes, because there is no pity needed in your life.”

  When we’re done, the pile on my bed has grown ceiling-high, a mountain of donatable goods.

  “This is good,” Scarlett says. “You’re cleaning house. Starting fresh.”

  Buoyed by her support, I nod enthusiastically. “I’m going to San Francisco ready to conquer the world of football and franchises and getting back to the Super Bowl. I don’t care about dating. I don’t care about anything but a few pairs of shoes for the events I need to go to. I will take the city by storm, bring home the Lombardi Trophy, and do my father proud.”

  She grabs her phone, clicks on her music app, and belts out the first anthemic notes of Beyoncé’s “Run the World” as it blasts through my penthouse.

  We rock out to the woman-power anthem as we scoop up my clothes, shoes, scarves, and purses, folding them neatly, then tucking them into shopping bags to take to Dress for Success, a fantastic non-profit that helps women get back on their feet with the right clothes for job hunting.

  When the tune ends, I’m ready to state my intention with Scarlett as witness. “From now on, no more matchmaking, no more shoe sublimating. There’s just the team.”

  “I’m rooting for you,”
she says. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

  Maybe, but there’s one thing I need to sort through still.

  “Do I have to get rid of my large family of vibrators?”

  “Hate to break it to you, but no one takes those for donation,” she says in a stage whisper.

  I roll my eyes. “I know that. I’m simply wondering if I should cull them as part of this house cleaning?” But I dismiss that crazy thought stat. “Pretend I didn’t say that. I would never do such a terrible thing. Let’s go sort the little darlings.”

  Scarlett gives me a look that says oh no you didn’t.

  “News flash. I wasn’t asking you to touch them,” I say.

  “News flash. I wasn’t going to touch the vibrators,” she retorts.

  I slide open the nightstand then pack up my friends. “I have a feeling I’m going to be needing these the day I arrive.” I raise my favorite pink rabbit in my right hand, and pledge, “I hereby declare my allegiance to vibrators and only vibrators. All of them. We have a polyamory thing going on.”

  “A little reverse harem with your battery-operated friends?” Scarlett asks with a quirk of her brow.

  “I am their queen, and they live to serve me.” As I pack the pink one, my phone beeps from the bed. “Can you grab that?”

  She does and scans the screen. “Crosby. It’s a text.”

  My lips curve up in a grin at the mention of my brother’s best friend. “Read it to me, please.”

  She adopts a masculine tone. “Hey, Wild Girl, want to buddy up at your bro’s wedding?”

  I laugh at her imitation. Crosby called in a favor a few months ago, and I was happy to help. He’s Eric’s friend, but I’ve always had a good time with him.

  Her eyes twinkle as she meets my gaze. “Wild Girl? He calls you Wild Girl?”

  I wave a hand dismissively. “He called me that when I was younger. He means nothing by it,” I say, even as my cheeks flush, even as my skin heats. “I’ve known him for years.”

  “And he wants to ‘buddy up’?” She sketches air quotes.

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not code for sex. I’ve known Crosby since he and Eric were ten and built dams in the stream behind our house in San Rafael. Since they were twelve, filming themselves with lightsabers doing Star Wars moves in the garage. That’s why it says ‘buddy up.’ I’m his buddy too.”

  “Why are your cheeks flushing, then?” she asks, amused. No, utterly delighted.

  I raise a hand to my cheek as if to hide the heat.

  But it’s spreading.

  “It’s just . . . hot in here,” I mutter.

  Her eyebrows wiggle. Her lips twitch. “Is that so? Or is this Crosby a McHottie? I just can’t remember from the last time you mentioned him,” she says, egging me on. “Let me refresh my recollection of the man you’ve known for so long.” She taps around on my phone for a moment, then gasps. “Aha! He is!”

  She shows me Crosby’s team headshot as if she’s never seen his image before either, but obviously I know what he looks like too. Heck, there are photos of him and Eric in our family home. Pics of Crosby, Eric, Brooke, and me. He’s a feature in our lives.

  But damn, does he ever look good in his team headshot, with his ball cap on and his uniform snug across his broad chest, the short sleeves showing off those hard-won biceps and those pants hugging his muscular thighs.

  My God, baseball uniforms are just delish.

  Of all the sports uniforms, those are my favorite.

  But the best part is he’s cracking a hint of a smile, his jaw is lined with his trademark stubble, and his blue eyes are sparkling with the promise of naughty secrets.

  He’s got the whole sexy-athlete vibe working overtime.

  And Scarlett knows it. “Have fun buddying up with the hottest player in Major League Baseball at your brother’s wedding.”

  Buddies.

  We’re just buddies.

  That’s all.

  As soon as she leaves, I pounce on my phone and call him back so fast.

  “Hey, Wild Girl,” he says in a voice that makes me feel like he can deliver on the promise of those blue eyes.

  3

  Crosby

  Wild Girl.

  It’s hard for me to call her anything but the nickname I gave her when we were kids.

  Ever since I met her when we were in grade school, Nadia Harlowe’s been a Tasmanian devil. A whirling dervish of energy, spark, and all kinds of sass.

  Two years younger than I am, she was the definition of the word spitfire. She was always joining Eric and me for sports in the park, swinging a bat or playing running back in a flag football game. At home, she loved to blast her music loud in her bedroom, pretend she was singing into a hairbrush, and challenge us to sing-offs, usually Kelly Clarkson, Gwen Stefani, or Lifehouse. Full of confidence and smarts, Nadia was never quiet at the dinner table. Over chicken and rice, she’d rattle off questions about the electoral college, equal pay, or famous female scientists.

  She made every meal at the Harlowe house an engaging debate, and that fiery spirit traveled with her out of the house too.

  One weekend when I was seventeen and she was fifteen, her family took me skiing with them in Tahoe. Fearless to the max, Nadia raced down the trails at Sugar Bowl on her snowboard, schussing over moguls, cruising around bends, and tackling every kind of terrain.

  Always ready to do it again.

  That’s why she’s the Wild Girl, the name I gave her in my phone.

  While walking down Fillmore, passing a boutique with scarves and wrap thingamajigs in the window, my phone rings and a picture of her flashes across the screen.

  It’s a shot of her from the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala last year. We both attended—her for the football awards, me for baseball. When I saw her at the gala, I marched up to her, wrapped her in my arms, kissed her cheek, and said, “Please tell me you saved a spot on your dance card for me.”

  She laughed, hugged me back, and said, “If they ever have dancing at these awards, I’m outta here.”

  We grabbed a drink instead, caught up, and toasted to next year, since neither of us had won that night.

  But damn, did she look good. And I’m glad I took that shot of her decked out in a ruby-red dress that worshipped her curves, her dark hair pinned up in one of those fancy buns and her eyes looking all smoky.

  I smile when smokey-eyed, red-dress-wearing Nadia appears on my screen.

  “Wild Girl,” I say, nice and easy when I answer.

  “Wannabe All-Star,” she tosses back, using her nickname for me when we were younger and I was all hopes, dreams, and bright-eyed bravado.

  “You do know you can just call me All-Star now? You can drop the ‘wannabe’ part,” I say as I adjust the phone against my ear.

  “Hmm. But I do like keeping you on your toes. If I don’t, who will?”

  Considering what just went down at Gabriel’s, a whole damn menagerie of dudes will. But I don’t want to think about the guys while talking to a woman who makes red dresses look like they throw themselves at her feet and beg for the chance to grace her curves. “You’re the only one, Nadia. So keep it up.”

  “Speaking of your toes, how are your lucky socks faring?”

  Stopping at the corner, I wiggle them in my shoes. “Happy as clams to be home and safe with their keeper. I even have on my purple ones today.”

  “And is it your lucky day?”

  With a grin that she can’t see but I bet she can hear, I say, “I’m on the phone with you. How could I be anything but the luckiest?”

  “Perfect answer, Mr. Purple Socks,” she says, her laughter floating across the phone line.

  “Tell me stuff,” I say as the light changes and I cross the street. “Are you stoked to come back to San Francisco?”

  “I am counting down the days,” she says, but her tone is mixed—a little too cheery, and a little bit melancholy.

  “Bullshit,” I say as I stride down the hill, making
my way to the gym a few blocks away. “I hear a little reticence in your voice.”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  “Because you’re a Vegas woman,” I say as my gaze catches on the window display in the lingerie shop I’m passing—red lacy bras and white teddies and all sorts of itty-bitty numbers that would look fabulous on—

  Whoa.

  Stop, brain. Stop thinking about women. I force my amphibian mind away from pretty underthings and lovely curves, from soft skin and the scent of a woman.

  “You’re going to miss Vegas, Nadia. You love to gamble. You love the neon and the billboards. You love to clean up at the poker table.”

  “That is true. I do kill it at poker. Maybe I’ll just have to start my own game in San Francisco, open a casino, bring the high rollers there.”

  I can see that perfectly, can picture her doing precisely that. “I’ve got all sorts of teammates who would love a high stakes game of poker.”

  “Fantastic. Molly’s Game will be my next gig,” she says, then she sighs, but it sounds contented. “And truth be told, I’ll miss my friends here, but I’m excited to return to the Bay Area. It’s been a while, but it’s always good to be home, even though I have a ton on my plate when I arrive.”

  “Let me know if you need anything when you get here, okay?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “I’m holding you to it. And it’ll be good to have you here. It’s been way too long,” I say.

  “That’s why I did a crazy thing. I called as a reply to your text. Isn’t that wild?”

  “Among the many reasons you’re the Wild Girl,” I say. “I mean, hell. Who does that? Calling in response to a text? You’re all about shaking things up.”

  “That’s me,” she says lightly, then shifts her tone to a bit more serious. “But tell me something about this ‘buddy up’ request. Last time we talked when I was in Paris for business, you said you weren’t sure if you were bringing anyone to Eric’s wedding. Did something change?”

  Do I tell her or not? Do I let her know I’ve sworn off women? “I’m not bringing anyone,” I say, not entirely answering, since I’m not entirely sure what to tell her. Instead, I seize the chance to needle her. “You just had to drop that you were in Paris for business.”