The Virgin Rule Book
Lauren Blakely
Lauren Blakely Books
Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
The Virgin Rule Book
Prologue
1. Crosby
2. Nadia
3. Crosby
4. Nadia
5. Nadia
6. Crosby
7. Crosby
8. Crosby
9. Nadia
10. Crosby
11. Nadia
12. Nadia
13. Crosby
14. Nadia
15. Crosby
16. Nadia
17. Crosby
18. Crosby
19. Nadia
20. Nadia
21. Nadia
22. Crosby
23. Nadia
24. Crosby
25. Nadia
26. Nadia
27. Crosby
28. Nadia
29. Crosby
30. Nadia
31. Crosby
32. Crosby
Epilogue
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
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 Player’s Scorecard
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
The Extravagant Duet
One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Never Have I Ever
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
PS It’s Always Been You
Special Delivery
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
21 Stolen Kisses
Out of Bounds
My One Week Husband
The Caught Up in Love Series
The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)
The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)
Seductive Nights Series
Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
About
A sexy, brother’s best friend sports romance from #1 New York Times bestseller Lauren Blakely!
Let me make a few things clear. I didn’t go to the wedding intending to dance with the best man, to dare him to show me a very sexy pic on his phone, or to accidentally kiss him in the hotel elevator after the reception ended.
But you know how it goes. Things just happen at weddings…
The next day, Crosby and I agree to put all those shenanigans behind us. The fun-loving, stupidly gorgeous, all-star baseball player might be my brother’s best friend, but he’s my friend too and has been for years, so it’s easy to move on, especially because I have a high-profile business to run.
But since he’s newly single and I’m always single, it turns out we both desperately need plus ones. We agree to “publicly date” over the next two weeks of galas, parties and events before his baseball season begins.
The only trouble is the more time I spend with Crosby, the more I keep imagining how much I want him to take my V-card.
And when I broach the possibility with Crosby, his answer surprises the hell out of me.
The Virgin Rule Book
By Lauren Blakely
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Prologue
Nadia
A woman needs three things in her purse when she’s out with her friends for the night: tissues, lipstick, and a Leatherman multi-tool.
Just the thing for picking the lock on a bathroom door if, say, your bestie gets stuck in the ladies’ room at The Extravagant hotel right before the sold-out concert you’re there to see.
Who only needed forty-five seconds and that Swiss Army knife for lumberjacks to spring Scarlett in time for the opening song?
This girl.
But when morning rolls around, it’s time to change out the handbag arsenal.
Because by day, every badass businesswoman must have three weapons at her disposal when she marches into the boardroom.
Not lipstick. Please, gloss works just fine for nine to five.
Definitely not tissues, b
ecause I don’t ever let a business associate see me cry.
And save the Leatherman, because wits matter more in the bright light of day.
What’s in my purse when I meet with the guys is this: my ovaries of steel, my ultimate poker face, and one hell of a mantra to navigate any conference room or sports arena where I’m the only one who doesn’t pee standing up.
Don’t be afraid to speak up.
I’m not one bit hesitant to use my voice.
My father instilled sky-high confidence in me, whether it comes to school, to life, or to running the football team he gave me before he died a year ago.
He prepped me to fill his big shoes since I could walk, since I could talk, since I could fly down the street on my bike like the wild child I was. Look, Ma, no hands! That was me.
He taught me to be a squeaky wheel, and I aim to get the grease.
I’ll tell you when your fly is down, when you’ve ticked me off, and when you have made my day with your awesomeness.
I’ll be your biggest champion, and I’ll also be the one to let you know when you’ve stepped in mud.
That’s how I am in business and in friendship.
But there’s another side to every woman.
The secret side.
I have mine. Oh hell, do I ever. I have a drawerful of classified intel on moi.
And when it comes to dating and mating and other forms of associating, I rarely share any hush-hush info. First date, second date—I can’t remember when I last had a third—I’ve never been one to spill the insider scoop on the heart, mind, and body of Nadia Harlowe.
And that’s how it’s been. Until my brother’s wedding, when I asked to see the best man’s dick pic.
With that, my secret starts to unravel, and once it does, there’s no reeling it back in.
1
Crosby
It’s official.
I’m radioactive.
My relationship fiascos have gotten so bad that they belong on a BuzzFeed Top Five list. Actually, I’m lucky no wiseass has made one.
Confronted with the final bill from my lawyer, I take a hard look at the results of my latest belly flop into the dating pool. My cousin Rachel introduced me to Daria, a motivational speaker who was highly motivated to sell a racy shot of my favorite body part to a sleazy publication.
Fine, fine. I shouldn’t have sent Daria the dirty pic in the first place, but you should have seen the one she sent me.
Along with a dare: Ball’s in your court.
And my balls very nearly wound up in court as evidence of her malfeasance.
That was fun.
And costly. From my comfy couch, I hit send on the payment to Bentley & Cohen Partners and heave a sigh.
“Good riddance, Daria,” I mutter. I ended that fling months ago, but the wreckage took this long to clean up.
Rachel blames herself for the Daria debacle, and she’s been texting daily to ask how I am or to send a picture of her kittens chasing their tails, or to forward me a particularly witty column from my favorite political satire site.
But she thinks a new woman will make up for the last one being a rotten egg.
How about Rosemary the schoolteacher? What about Marisa the boutique owner?
And this latest one that just arrived:
Rachel: Can I set you up with my fabulous friend Sasha? She’s a nurse! She loves baseball, rescue animals, and hiking in Muir Woods, just like you do. Plus, she’s a sweetheart.
She’s included a picture of her friend—a gorgeous redhead smiling at the top of a mountain she just climbed—but I’m not even tempted.
Okay, I’m a little tempted. I’m not made of iron, and Rachel’s hiking pal is smoking hot.
But I’m turning over a new leaf.
I stand, grab my keys, and tap out a reply as I leave my pad in Pacific Heights.
Crosby: Love ya, Rach, but I’m benching myself. I am out of the running for dates, setups, hookups, situationships, or more.
Rachel: Really? Are you just saying that? I swear, she’s nothing like Daria. I still feel terrible.
Crosby: We’re all good. And yes, really. If I kept hitting into double plays or striking out looking, my manager would bench me. So I’m doing the same to myself.
Rachel: Has there ever been a time when you couldn’t use a baseball analogy?
Crosby: Life is baseball.
Rachel: Ah. So, what if you miss a shot at a home run with this woman while you’re benched?
Crosby: That’s a chance I’ll take. Gotta run—tux fitting with Eric in ten minutes.
Rachel: You’ll meet someone soon who’s a sweetheart. I just know it! Keep the faith.
I respond with a noncommittal smiley face. Rachel’s a good one, but she’s dead wrong. I don’t meet sweethearts. I meet bad girls.
I like bad girls. And bad girls like me.
But they haven’t been good for me. Hence, it’s time for a change.
Tucking my phone into my jeans pocket, I zip up my fleece—San Francisco is fuck-all cold in February—and make my way up Fillmore Street to Gabriel’s Tuxedos, feeling solid with my dating game plan.
The zero-date plan.
In baseball, a player sometimes needs to sit out a few innings to reset. And I figure if that works in baseball, it must work for anything else, including dating.
I meet my longtime bud outside the tuxedo shop, knock fists, then head for the changing rooms in the back, where Gabriel shows us the wedding duds.
He’s my regular supplier, and he takes care of the guys on my team too. I’ve got my own tuxes—every pro athlete does—but Eric’s bride loves the color blue, so I needed a new one for his nuptials.
I change into a navy-blue tux, then step out to check my dapper reflection in the three-way mirror. “Can’t help it. I was born to make tuxes look good.”
Eric smooths a hand over his lapel. “Need Gabriel to find a bigger door for your ego when we leave?”
“The loading doors are in the back,” the shop owner says, straight-faced.
“Double-wide for my pal’s head, I hope,” Eric says.
“On it.” A new customer walks in, and Gabriel excuses himself to take care of them. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.” I turn to Eric as Gabriel moves off. “You didn’t give me a chance to share the love. I was going to say you look like a cool cat too. We both look good.”
“Thanks, that was heartfelt,” Eric says dryly.
“That’s what the best man is for. Moral support and the occasional compliment.”
“Everything I could ever want.”
I adjust my cuff links in the mirror, catching Eric’s gaze more seriously. I need to tell him I’ve decided to hand over the keys to the dating car for the next stretch of road. That I need a designated driver because I can’t be trusted behind the wheel.
“Speaking of moral support . . .” I clear my throat. “Remember that time in eleventh grade when I vowed not to send Avery Forrester a bouquet of flowers from a secret admirer, aka me?”
Eric laughs, shaking his head as he fiddles with his sleeves. “Knew she was bad news when she claimed you copied her F. Scott Fitzgerald essay to cover for copying yours. And yet you still wanted to bone her.”
I narrow my eyes as he serves up my teenage woes. But, fact is, I need the reminder. “So you do remember.”
“You’ve been the king of bad judgment for ages when it comes to women.” Eric knots his bow tie. “Just like I remember that time last fall when you told me to take your phone away for the day so you’d abstain from calling Camille Hawthorne.”
I wince at the cruel memory. “She stole my best socks. The ones with the giraffes. Those were my lucky socks. I needed them back.”
“Dude, all your socks are lucky. At least that’s what you tell me.” Eric adopts a lower tone, imitating me. “I wore the hedgehog socks when I won the ESPY. I wore the wolf socks when I won MVP. I wore the penguin socks when I hit my fortieth homer o
f the season.”
I smile, cocky bastard that I am, as he rattles off my accomplishments. “Thank you, Almanac of Crosby Cash.”
“I’m the protector of your socks too. If I hadn’t kept you from caving and calling Camille, surely she would have stolen the penguin ones next.”
I bring a hand to my heart. “And I love you for looking out for my weak ass when it comes to the ladies.” I tug up the hem of my blue tux pants, showing him my footwear. “By the way, I got the giraffes back. Wearing them today as my Eric-is-getting-hitched good luck socks.”
He peers at the long-necked animals on my feet. “How did you retrieve them?” He holds up a stop-sign hand. “Wait. Do I want to know? Does it involve you and Holden breaking into Camille’s apartment for an elaborate heist?”