The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) by Lauren Blakely (best books to read for young adults .txt) 📕

I intoxxed. I intoxxed you.” My heart fills and empties at the same time. “I’m falling so hard for you, Nadia,” I say, and it feels wonderful to give her the truth of my heart, but terrible too.

“I’m completely falling for you,” she says. In her voice I hear the same kind of hope I feel, and a thread of the same worry too.

That’s the trouble. Is this a false hope?

“But the last thing I want in the whole entire universe is to screw this up, Nadia,” I say.

She nods slowly in understanding, maybe even agreement. “Because it’s happening so fast?”

“It’s like a wild roller-coaster ride we’re on, and I don’t know how to pull the brake, or if we even should. I want to be with you, but I also don’t want to ruin this by rushing things when the timing is wrong, or the timing is against us?”

She winces, but nods too, taking it on the chin. “I feel the same. I wanted nothing to do with a relationship when I moved back, and now . . .”

I finish the thought. “We’re practically having one?” It comes out heavily.

So does her reply. “We are. Instant relationship, just add water.”

I scrub a hand over my jaw. I’m pretty sure falling in love should make you stupidly happy, not constantly worried you’ll torch the best thing that ever happened to you with one false move.

But maybe there’s a way to pull this off. Maybe we can pull us off the way we originally planned.

There has to be a way to get back on track. To salvage our initial intent. If it’s friends-only or lose her completely, I’ll do it.

I brace myself for what I’m about to propose. “I know what we should do.”

Her eyes flick to mine, hopeful. “You do? Please tell me.”

“The plan was to stay friends, right? We need to adult the fuck out of this. We need to adult it for real this time. We never truly tried to buddy up. We said we would, but we didn’t.”

She jumps in, picking up the thread like we’re solving a business problem. “You’re right. We planned to buddy up, and instead we fell into bed.”

“We’re supposed to try being friends. Try for real. Not get all wrapped up in each other.”

“Exactly,” she says, agreeing, her brown eyes intense, how I suspect she is at work. “We can’t just get together that quickly. That’s not how relationships work.”

“We need to do this the smart way. The measured way. We need to be patient.”

She lifts her mug, taking a long drink of her coffee, like she’s giving herself time to analyze the problem. When she sets down her cup, her brows are knit, her words slow and serious, almost cautious. “Did we just agree to be friends?”

I look down at her hand, still joined with mine, and then let go. Friends don’t hold hands like they’re crazy for each other. Friends eat breakfast and go their separate ways. They don’t text each other later in the day, and they don’t ask when they’ll see each other again.

My heart pinches like a rope is tied around it, tightening it.

I don’t want to be just friends.

I don’t want to level down with Nadia Harlowe.

And I sure as shit don’t want to be less than lovers with her.

But being friends without benefits feels like the first responsible decision I’ve made about this woman in weeks.

It’s what I need to do.

“I leave on Monday for spring training. I’m going early this year to get in some extra workouts when pitchers and catchers report. Then I’m gone for a little over a month anyway.” I can’t quite fathom how I’m willingly ending something that has barely begun. But I have to do this. I have to know I’m not nuclear any longer.

I force myself to think with my head rather than the pathetic organ in my chest that wants to smother her with kisses, hide out with her in bed the rest of the day, and never let her go.

Brain, you’re at bat.

Just take a fucking swing.

“And while I’m in training, since we can’t be together,” I continue, doing my damnedest to be rational, “maybe we use the time to be apart. To take it slow and measured. To be patient.” I swallow roughly. “We can go to the golf event tomorrow as friends,” I offer, like I’m dying to go platonic with her.

Being just friends only sounds like a forking awful consolation prize, but it’s the opposite of my past mistakes, and that’s what I need to do.

“Sure,” Nadia says, a little uncertain. But she takes a shuddery breath and seems more resolved. “It’s what we were supposed to do anyway. Besides, I need to focus on finding a new GM, and all my plans for the team. There’s no lack of work for me to do,” she says, crisp and professional.

In a similar tone, I say, “Then we’ll see how things are after spring training. After we’ve done the friendship thing for real.” I sound much more decisive than I feel. “We’ll wait for our pitch. That’ll be our new rule. Rule number six.”

She gives me a faint smile, drains her coffee, then nods like it’s all settled. “Friends.”

“For now,” I agree. We’re not calling it relationship-quits forever. We’re just sensibly slowing down.

So why do I feel like we just broke up?

28

Nadia

My niece, Audrey, brandishes a paperback in each hand, waggling one then the other.

“Girl spy or girl warrior?” she asks, debating her purchase as we peruse the shelves at An Open Book.

I screw up my lips, tapping my finger on my chin, studying each cover. “That’s a good question. But with books, you truly can have it all. I vote for both,” I declare.

She nods resolutely, her black ponytail bouncing. “You’re right. I’ll ask my dad to buy me both.”

This is one of my favorite bookstores in the city, perched at the edge of the Marina, a soaring view of the