I’m antsy. I don’t relish being alone. I like company and friends, going out, having a good time.

  I open a group text to some of my local mates.

  Shane: I have arrived. Let the fun begin.

  * * *

  Drew: Gee, I was waiting for you. Twiddling my thumbs. And here you are, saving the day.

  * * *

  Sullivan: Life has been sad and empty without you . . . Not.

  * * *

  Shane: Figured as much. But that all changes tomorrow.

  * * *

  Sullivan: Yes, this new band is in town. Secret Frog Lovers Mate in the Night. Wanna check them out?

  * * *

  Shane: Would love to, but alas, I can’t. Promised my agent, like I told you. But the comedy club you suggested still works.

  * * *

  Drew: Seriously? Are we really sticking to that plan?

  * * *

  Shane: Do you not like to laugh? A comedy club is the perfect way to welcome me back to town.

  * * *

  Sullivan: Yes, Drew, we’re going to the comedy club. Case closed.

  * * *

  Shane: Listen to the Cougar.

  * * *

  Sullivan: You wish you’d been traded to the Cougars.

  He’s not wrong. I’d lose my mind to play for the team that won the World Series a little more than a year ago. And I’d love to have a ring like Sullivan. Someday.

  For now, though, I want to do three things. Have a good time. Impress my employers. Don’t fall in love again.

  That’s it.

  That’s all this ballplayer can ask for.

  2

  Clementine

  I have a theory that one of the best spots to meet a hip, cool guy is at a comedy club. But not just any night of the week. I’d like to meet this dream man the night a female comic performs.

  It’s a litmus test. A lot of guys subscribe to the patently false idea that only men can be funny.

  As if.

  So if a man’s digging a comedy show headlined by the fairer sex, he’s passed the first test.

  No sexist pigs need apply to date me.

  Or bang me either, but one step at a time.

  At my home in Cow Hollow, I lift a glass of champagne to toast with my lady pack as Taylor Swift serenades us from my phone.

  “To the best dates anyone could ever ask for,” I tell Erin, Frankie, and Nova.

  Because even though I’m going to Stella’s Comedy Attic tonight to celebrate the next phase of my dating life, that new era starts tomorrow. I don’t expect to meet a leading candidate to deflower me while at a comedy club with my girlfriends on Galentine’s Day.

  Taylor hits a high note, and Magnus yips.

  He’s part of the pack—the only boy member.

  I bend down to scoop up my Papillon rescue into my arms. I smooch the six-pound beast’s soft, silky head. He licks my cheek.

  “So this makes us an official foursome tonight?” Erin deadpans, tipping her glass against mine as she flicks a strand of chestnut hair from her shoulder.

  Peering over her red heart-shaped glasses, Frankie lifts her flute too. “What else is Galentine’s Day for but a foursome?” she chimes in with a sly grin. “Come to think of it, I believe someone wrote that on a card today at my shop.”

  I laugh. “What sort of flowers did they order for that?”

  “Stargazer lilies, of course. They work best in fours,” Frankie says, deadpan, as if she gets this request at her flower shop all the time.

  Nova clinks her glass to mine. “I’ll say this though—foursomes are tough, friends. We’re talking lots of choreography.”

  Laughing, I knock back some bubbly, grateful to spend this silly love day with my best friends before I put a saddle on the dating horse tomorrow. “I’ll trust you. Besides, who needs a boyfriend? Not this gal,” I shout as my playlist shifts to P!nk, the ultimate girl-power singer.

  “Not this gal either, that’s for sure,” Nova says dryly. Nova does everything dryly. She’s the queen of deadpan.

  “I know, babes, so no gal-hunting for you tonight,” I tell her, wagging a finger.

  She rolls her dark-blue eyes. “I’m out with the three of you. Who is going to hit on me?”

  “You never know. And if someone hits on me, I’ll be all Nope, not tonight, not any guy, no how,” I say, since I’m ready for what tomorrow might bring.

  The wreckage of the last few years of dating disasters is behind me.

  I won’t let the litany of over-and-out men from the apps get me down. Not the guy who dated me so he could store Omaha Steaks in my freezer, not the dude who asked me to shave his balls after we’d only had one latte—I told him ball shaving required a five-course meal plus a delish dessert—and not the fella who showed me photos of all his ex-girlfriends.

  Who happened to look like my long-lost twins. Ew.

  Over the last few years, I’ve never made it to the five-date mark with a single one of them. That’s my demarcation point for getting busy between the sheets.

  Or really, it was.

  But I’m turning over a new leaf, and after tonight’s celebration with my besties, I’ll put myself out there again. I’ll get back on the apps and roll back the five-date line to just . . . one.

  Fine, maybe two.

  Three at the most.

  I swallow more bubbly. “I’m done with waiting for the right guy for a relationship. Clearly the five-date rule is a lie. After Galentine’s Day”—I glance at the black cat clock on the wall, its tail keeping time—“I’m implementing the one-to-three date rule.”

  Nova rolls her eyes. “Just do it, Clem. Just get some dick once and for all.”

  “Dick down, dick down, dick down,” Frankie chants, and my jaw falls open.

  “Sources say our heroine is ready to hit the apps tomorrow night,” Erin booms in her best on-air voice, a thing she uses a lot since, well, she’s a sports reporter. “All witty, dog-loving five-and-ups in the looks department in the city of San Francisco . . . on your marks.”

  “Five-and-ups,” Nova says with an approving nod. “You’re casting a wide net, Clem.”

  “I’m open-minded. I’m not obsessed with looks. I just want a nice guy with a big heart. I even told Sierra to keep her eyes peeled for me at her bar. Well, when she gets back from her Valentine’s Day trip with her hubs,” I say.

  Erin places a finger on her lips. “Shhh. Do not speak of Valentine’s Day tonight. It is only Galentine’s Day.”

  I take another drink. “Or really, the eve of my new dating plans. And this time on the dating merry-go-round, I’m not looking to get serious or to have a relationship. But if he’s a good guy, I might let him into my pants,” I say, shimmying my hips suggestively.

  Erin bumps her hip with mine. “Someone is determined to rip up her V-card any day now.”

  I’m ready to say goodbye to my virginity. I’ve banged enough vibrators to know I want the real thing at last. And I’ve dated enough duds to know I just don’t need to wait for big love anymore.

  I set down my glass to shake my fist at the sky. “Thanks, Stephen Scott. Hope you’re enjoying having ditched me.”

  Frankie looks at me, concern painted in her eyes.

  “I’m kidding, hon. I’m so over my ex. He’s history. One in a long string of terrible . . . dates. But I am the queen of terrible dates no more,” I call out.

  Erin clears her throat. “And we got you a sash to that effect.”

  I blink. “Seriously? You got me a sash?”

  “Yes. This is your one-month celebration.” Erin whirls around, grabs her purse, and fishes around in it till she locates a white ribbon. “Ta-da.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I say, holding up a stop-sign hand, since did she really?

  And the answer is . . . yes, she did.

  “Wear it, girl. Wear it with pride. Own it,” Erin says, brandishing the sash.

  I can’t even with my friends. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

  I step into the center of the circle of awesome and dip my head.

  Erin clears her throat. “By the power vested in me as one of the fab foursome, I pronounce you DTF.”

  “Woo-hoo. Clem is Down to Fuck,” Frankie adds.

  I arch a brow at the crudely drawn words written in lipstick on the white material. “‘Screw Mr. Right. I’m looking for Mr. Right Now,’” I read aloud.

  Yep. Sounds about right.

  Let the new era of dating begin.

  3

  Clementine

  My parents have a great marriage, and so does my older sister. And I read a dating survey a few years ago that said the longer you wait to have sex, the longer the relationship. So I’d deemed the fifth date as the ideal time for me to have everything I might want in romance—sex and love in the same person.

  A win-win!

  Double first name notwithstanding, Stephen Scott seemed like Mr. Right. I was sure he’d be the one to cross the line to get in my pants. But with my schedule training dogs and his schedule as the king of the outdoors, our first four dates were spread over several months, since he’d embarked on a Mount Everest climb. When the fifth date approached upon his return from the summit, he declared he’d had an epiphany at the top of the world—he only wanted to use his body for more noble pursuits.

  “My body is a temple, and I won’t soil it with sex,” he’d announced.

  Fabulous.

  Fucking fabulous.

  Between that and the fact that he didn’t dote on Magnus as much as I’d have liked—fine, he scratched the guy’s chin, but he never kissed him—it was clear he was not the man for me.

  Men like him are my past.

  I set Magnus on the couch so we can take off for the club. “Be the best boy in the world,” I tell him.

  He folds his paws then lets his tongue loll out. Gah. Could I have a better dog? I think not.

  I scratch his chin. “Yes, I know you are the best boy.”

  He tilts his face, and I drop another kiss to his head, then we leave and make our way to the club.

  Once we sweep into Stella’s, I take off the sash. It’s adorable, but I’d rather not advertise my hot-to-trot status.

  We grab a table near the stage, and after the waiter asks us for our drink order, Erin gasps.

  “What?”

  She drops her voice to the barest whisper. “That’s Hudson Tanner,” she mouths.

  “Who’s that?” Frankie asks, crinkling her freckled nose.

  “I swear you never know a thing about sports,” Erin says with a laugh.

  Frankie arches a wry brow. “You never know a thing about flowers,” she tosses back.

  Nova drags a hand through her thick red hair. “Which is why we’re all such a fab foursome. We support each other.”

  “Anyway, he’s the Cougars owner,” I say to Frankie.

  “And look who he’s with,” Nova whispers. “Marlow Winters. She owns the Dragons, and she’s a fox.”

  Nova’s spot on. The billionaire brunette is quite pretty, in a classy, I-own-a-private-jet-drive-a-Bugatti-and-live-in-a-mansion way.

  But soon, the server returns with our drinks—Diet Coke for me right now—and we turn to the stage. After the opening act warms us up, the headliner strides onto the stage, looking all Zooey Deschanel quirky cute as she entertains us with tales of the challenges of dating in a swipe-right culture.

  “Has this ever happened to you?” Matilda begins. “You check out someone’s dating profile, look at their pics, and oh my God, you see the cutest shots. I mean, I fell in love with this one image. You would too. I swear you would. He was brown and tan, had big bat ears. What? It could happen to you. Chihuahua min pins are so cute.”

  I crack up.

  And I’m not alone.

  Across the room comes a loud, deep snort.

  I whip my gaze in its direction.

  All I can make out is the profile of a tall twentysomething man sitting several tables away. He holds his belly, laughing.

  He reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite make out who with the light dimmed for the set.

  “Hey, it happens. Dog fishing is a real thing,” Matilda says, finishing the joke.

  The guy snorts even louder.

  I wish the lights were brighter, but I put him out of my mind.

  I’m not here for a man—I’m here for my gals. So I sit back and enjoy the rest of the set with my friends.

  When the set ends, Nova spots someone she interviewed for her Badass Babe podcast, so she drags Frankie over to say hi.

  I grab Erin’s arm, and we make our way to the bar. “Promise me you won’t let me talk to any of the total cuties, the hotties, or the even remotely good-looking guys who didn’t think Matilda was the funniest act ever,” I tell her. “I refuse to be swayed by a man with no sense of humor.”

  “A good sense of humor is basically kryptonite,” Erin says.

  “I know! That’s why I liked Stephen Scott. He was funny enough—until he got all enlightened.”

  Erin makes a shushing gesture with her hand, snapping it like a duck’s bill. “No ex talk. It’s forbidden.”

  I mime zipping my lips. Then I throw away the key.

  “Good. Now, repeat after me,” Erin says.

  I pretend to reach for the key and unzip my lips again. “Am I allowed to speak now?”

  “Yes, but no talk of exes who decided to put their body to more noble use,” Erin says.

  “You’re right. You’re so right. Because do you know what the most noble use of all is?” I ask, then take a dramatic beat. “Sex. So much sex.”

  She rolls her eyes, laughing. “You’re the most perverted virgin I know.”

  “Why, thank you very much, and yes, I am. But I will not give it up to an unfunny guy.”

  My friend arches a brow. “You want me to put handcuffs on you right now? So you don’t accidentally pick up someone here who doesn’t share your sense of humor?”

  “Do you carry your own handcuffs? I always suspected you were the type of girl who was prepared for kink at a moment’s notice, you naughty vixen.”

  “As if. But: confession. I like to keep a scarf in my purse, so I figure that’ll do if I need to be tied up pronto.”

  “A thin little scrap of silk that you could toss around your neck but also be tied to the headboard with. Cha-ching. That’s what I’m talking about,” I say, licking the tip of my finger and touching the air so it sizzles.

  When we reach the bar, I do a double take. Wait, make that a triple take. Then my pulse speeds up as my gaze lands on a pair of warm hazel eyes.

  My mind races back in time. Images flicker before me. Memories of red-hot kisses behind the bleachers.

  Sexy stolen moments after baseball games.

  A touch here, a caress there.

  A man I haven’t seen in more than seven years.

  The guy at the end of the bar with the dark-blond hair and mischievous gaze crooks his lips up into a grin.

  Before I even have time to take a breath, he’s striding toward me, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

  Shane Walker.

  “Of all the comedy clubs in the city,” he says when he reaches me, and . . . that voice.

  Fuck me with a high-powered fourteen-speed dolphin that rocks my world.

  His accent is even sexier than it was when we were in high school.

  Duh. I hope so. He’s got seven years on the eighteen-year-old hottie that he was.

  The British baseball player.

  The flirty, dirty, gorgeous guy with the accent and the prowess on the diamond.

  Now, he’s even sexier, his voice rumblier, his whole look just . . . hotter.

  “Shane Walker, you’re supposed to be on the other side of the country,” I say, wagging a finger at him.

  “And I was. For a bit. Now I’m here. How the bloody hell are you? You look fantastic, Clementine.”

  The way he says my name with that British lilt is like a dose of lust, and it goes straight to my panties.

  Hey, libido, settle down. We’re not getting off the bench till tomorrow.

  Erin clears her throat. “Hi there.”

  I straighten my shoulders, recovering some composure. “This is my friend Erin. This is Shane Walker. He was a pitcher at my high school.”

  Erin smiles. “I certainly know who he is now. The former closer for the New York Comets. Brand-new closer for the Dragons—something the team desperately needs.”

  “And I am at their service.”

  “I hope they have many opportunities to use you,” Erin says. Then she whispers to me, “I hope you can use him too.”

  I swat her, but she just giggles.

  Erin excuses herself for the ladies’ room and makes like the wind, while Shane turns his hazel-eyed gaze just on me. “That was a fantastic show tonight. Did you enjoy Matilda? I legit laugh-snorted through most of it.”

  My eyes widen. “Are you serious? Was that you? The snorter?”

  Shane shrugs, owning it. “Yep. I am a certified snorter. I’m that person.”

  “I heard you straight across the club. I kept wondering who had the adorable laugh-snort.”

  “Oh, it’s fetching, I’m sure,” he says doubtfully. “That’s what you dream of, right? Finding a bloke who snorts when he laughs.”

  Honestly, I kind of do. I dream of a funny bone. A big, inviting sense of humor. A huge heart. But though I’m a dreamer, I know better than to serve all that up, so I keep my answer simple. “I do,” I say.

  Shane smiles. “You found him.”

  My heart flutters unexpectedly as his eyes lock with mine. “Good. And the laugh-snort is totally fetching. Completely,” I say with a flirty grin, then a happy sigh.