Nodding thoughtfully, he lifts his beer, drinks more of it, then sets down the glass. “I suppose I’m the same as you, Nadia. I’d like what my parents had. Hell, what my mom has now with Kana.”
My chest warms, my heart feeling glow-y from that lovely sentiment, one you don’t hear as often as you’d like, from women or from men. “Most people are afraid to admit they want that—love, connection, intimacy. I like that you just put it out there. In general. I like that you’re saying it in general,” I add quickly, since I don’t want him to worry that I have ulterior motives. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get all clingy. I understand the rules. We stay friends. Rule number two,” I add, like I’m proud of myself for recalling the laws we laid down.
He gives me a reassuring smile. “I wasn’t worried. At all,” he says, lifting a hand to squeeze my shoulder. A sort of friendly squeeze.
Hmm.
Is it weird that I want a non-friendly squeeze right now?
But I keep going, glad he’s on the same page. Truly, it’s good that he’s not worried. I do want to stay friends after we work our way through the Virgin Rule Book. I absolutely want to remain buddies. I shake away any wayward notions that extend beyond friendship.
This plus-one plan is fantastic. Besides, I’m lucky to be friends with someone who’s so easygoing and so open at the same time. And someone who’s so . . . bangable.
“It’s kind of heartwarming when anyone admits they want what we all truly want,” I say.
Smiling in acknowledgment, he knocks back some of his beer. “I hear ya. I blame it on my mom. She was all about being in touch with your emotions. ‘Don’t be afraid of your feelings. A real man can admit when he’s fallen,’” he says, imitating his mother.
“Funny, you sound just like her.”
“I suppose I’m glad she’s like that. Trouble is, I’m not so good at following her advice.”
My brow creases. “What do you mean?”
He exhales heavily, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “My dating woes? All those ex-girlfriend stories? They’re all my fault.”
“Why do you say that? You just . . .” I trail off though, unsure how to finish the thought fairly. Pick the wrong women? I don’t need to say that—he knows it.
“Choose the wrong women?” he supplies.
“You said it,” I say, laughing.
“It’s my Achilles’ heel. Grant and my cousin are right when they say I don’t take my time getting to know a woman before I let her in. They say I trust too soon. That’s true, and it’s all on me.” He holds up his right hand like he’s taking an oath in court. “Swear on it. Like I told your brother. I happen to have horrible taste. I’m kind of drawn to bad girls.”
My stomach dips with worry.
He reaches out a hand, clasping mine. “I was drawn to bad girls. Present company excluded.”
“I have nothing against bad girls, but I don’t think I’m one,” I say, perhaps a little apologetically.
He squeezes my hand harder. “You’re not a bad girl, and I’m wildly attracted to you. Maybe my taste is changing.”
I hope it is. “Perhaps,” I say noncommittally, not sure what else to say.
“Or maybe I’ve always had a thing for you,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe you’re the only good girl I’ve ever wanted.”
“Is that good or bad?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He runs a finger over the top of my hand, making my skin heat up.
“Feels good right now,” he says. “And this thing between us is good. We already know each other.”
“We do,” I echo, and as if to prove it, the conversation sails away on its own while we catch the end of the hockey game, complaining about some calls, cheering about others, debating who’s going to win as we finish our drinks and then make our way out of the bar after saying goodbye to Sierra.
Crosby takes me home, gets out of the limo, and walks me to the front door of my building. He stops before I unlock it, dipping his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.
It’s the what’s next moment. Nerves thrum through me.
“So,” he begins. “We have the golf thing this weekend. Before I jet off to Arizona.”
“Cactus league time,” I say, using the insider lingo, the term for baseball teams who do their spring training in Arizona.
“I’m leaving on Monday,” he says.
I try not to dwell on him leaving. Who cares that he’s leaving after all? He’s coming back. Spring training doesn’t last forever. Nor does friends-with-benefits, so there’s no need to be all moony.
“But there’s plenty of days on the calendar before then,” he adds, and it comes out like an invitation, a little flirty.
“So very true,” I say, waiting, hoping he wants the same thing.
He inches closer, dips his face to my neck, and breathes me in. I tremble as his nose runs along my neck, traveling up to my ear, where he nibbles ever so gently on my earlobe then pulls back. “I don’t want to wait till the golf thing to see you again.”
My heart tap-dances across a Broadway stage. “I don’t either.”
He murmurs as he brushes decadent kisses along my skin. “Invite me over tomorrow night, Nadia.”
My body is throwing an I’m ready parade. “Come over tomorrow,” I say.
He separates from me, his gaze roaming over my figure one last time. “I’ll bring dinner.”
“I’ll bring an appetite,” I say.
“I’ll see you at eight, then, Wild Woman.”
He returns to his limo and drives away, having bestowed a new nickname on me.
Am I a wild woman?
Maybe we’ll find out.
I can’t wait for tomorrow. Though, as I head inside, I’m also missing having him here tonight.
A lot.
21
Nadia
Brooke bats first, with a text message flashing like a neon sign as I apply makeup the next morning.
Brooke: Called it. Lovebirds. Like I said
