The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)

“To my wedding buddy,” I say.
He smiles back. “And to mine.”
We clink, and I feel mildly recalibrated.
Only mildly.
“So, Alabama the fortune-teller was a bit of an exhibitionist,” he says, returning to the tale. “And when we were dancing, ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ came on. She decided to take off all her clothes, right down to her red thong underwear.”
My jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“One hundred percent.”
“I guess she did want to have fun.”
“When I gave her my shirt to cover her up, that’s right when the cops came into the club, and they thought I was involved in her striptease.”
I wince, a little nervous. “How did you get out of it?”
“My teammates.”
My brow furrows. “They were with you?”
“Nope. But like most ballplayers, I have plenty of teammates who are Latino and speak Spanish. So I made it my mission over the last few years to learn the language. I talk to Juan, one of my starting pitchers in Spanish all the time. So when I was in Mexico, I gave my best effort in talking to the police, and I think they appreciated that. One of them said I should find a nice girl, not a crazy one.”
“And what happened to the crazy one?”
He makes a whooshing sound, his arm dipping in the universal sign for an airplane flying. “I flew her home that night. Literally got on the next plane with her, and then I caught a flight to Anchorage. I went whale watching the rest of our vacation. Solo.”
My smile spreads to my cheeks. “I can picture that perfectly. I bet you loved it.”
“It was so peaceful. Very zen and, I am not afraid to admit, quite emotional,” he says. “Watching the whales surfacing out there on the water. Seeing glaciers calve. Being in the midst of all that wilderness. It was everything I needed.”
As we drink our champagne, he dives into his other tales of woe, rattling off a story about a woman who tried to steal his World Series ring, then another who attempted to make off with his Tesla one night, only to forget to charge it, so she ran out of power on the Golden Gate Bridge.
I giggle as he entertains me with his stories.
Then I school my expression. “Level with me, Crosby. Do you think you’re attracted to thieves?”
His eyes turn intensely serious. “The evidence would indeed seem to suggest as much. As well as trouble. My cousin Rachel set me up with the last woman I went out with, and she still feels horrible about it. Not her fault, and Rachel’s a sweetheart who likes to keep herself busy, since she has a jerk of an ex and I swear she tries to make up for it by setting up others. Sometimes, though, she doesn’t make the best matches,” he says as I take the last sip of my drink. “Considering the last woman she set me up with tried to sell my dick pic.”
The bubbles tickle my nose. They make me cough. But maybe they also go to my head, because rather than laughing, the next words that come out of my mouth surprise me.
“Can I see it?”

10


Crosby
That was not what I expected to hear from Nadia.
Not at all.
She’s surprising me in all sorts of ways tonight, but then again, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, because she’s always been bold.
But about this? About squeezing my ass and seeing my cock?
This is brand-new terrain, and fine, it’s not friendship territory, but I can’t resist trekking across it. Achilles’ heel, here I go.
She is it tonight.
She’s my weakness, and I take another hit.
“The pic,” I say, taking my time, slow and easy, letting my meaning register. “Or my dick?”
With cheeks flushed, she purses her lips, looking right, then looking left. She whispers, her voice edging up in a question, “Both?”
Holy fuck.
She meant it, it seems.
My throat goes dry. My skin sparks. And my mind is all kinds of intrigued with this woman. “Are you serious?” I ask, because I need to know if we’re playing jokes, or if we’re playing with fire.
She swallows, like she’s gulping, then she blinks and breathes out hard. “I shouldn’t have asked that. That’s crazy. I should not have asked that.”
“I’m not offended,” I say, reaching out and touching her arm just to emphasize my point. “Not one bit.”
She lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m not the kind of woman who asks to see that. I swear. Honestly, I don’t even think I like those pics.”
I can’t resist that tidbit either. “But do you like dicks?”
“Didn’t I already tell you that? Now stop embarrassing me even more,” she says, with a playful stomp of her foot.
“You’re truly embarrassed?” I ask softly.
“You’re a friend, and I asked for that, and I shouldn’t have.” She waves her hand in the air. “Please just pretend I didn’t do that. It was the champagne talking.”
But can I actually pretend that she didn’t say that?
Didn’t seem like just an offhand comment. Or a joke. Seemed like there was a part of her that wanted to see the pic.
And I would have shown her the shot that I paid good money to keep out of the papers.
What the hell is that about?
Am I some kind of dick-swinging pervert?
Why the fuck would I show Nadia a picture of my cock when I am clearly in time-out? Why would I show her at any time, for that matter?
But an answer flickers before my eyes. I like the idea of sharing that kind of naughtiness with her. I like the idea that she wanted to see the pic.
In fact, I’m pretty sure—wait for it—I like her.
And because I do, I want to smooth the landing for her, lest she berate herself more. I lean on our favorite word of the night. “If it makes you feel better, I could just accidentally show you the dick pic.”
Rolling her eyes, she laughs, some of her embarrassment seeming to slink away. “Thanks. Story of the