“Perpetually single is the way to go,” I say, offering a fist for bumping.

  Our burgers arrive, and after a few delicious bites, I set down the food, a fantastic thought dipping into my brain. “Maybe my invitation was lost. Or maybe Blake isn’t inviting me on account of Natasha being there. Maybe he’s being pre-thoughtful? That’s possible.”

  TJ smiles as he chews. “You’ve always been the big dreamer between the two of us.”

  I shrug, owning it. “I’m going to hold on tight to this dream. I am going to cup it in my hands and squeeze it until it comes true.”

  I dream that the invitation was lost in the mail. I wish that it were sent to Mars. I imagine an eagle swooped down and plucked it out of the mail carrier’s bag like a fish from a river. But my dreams die a painful death when I open the mailbox a few days later after returning from a morning workout. Outside my home in Pacific Heights, my hands clasp a white envelope. With embossed writing, my name in silver taunts me.

  Three days in Maui.

  Three days seeing Natasha with the man she left me for. The man she cheated on me with.

  Three days with family asking how I’m doing, if I’m sad, how I’m handling the end of my marriage, if I’m moving on.

  The answer? I’ve moved on, closed up the heart, and taken myself out of the falling-in-love rotation.

  But I’d rather not see their sympathetic faces. Hear the good for yous.

  My chest tightens with knots, like how I feel when I face a terrifying batter. A leftie with tree trunks for arms.

  But do I back away from vicious lefties who try to chew up closing pitchers like they’re chicken bones?

  Nope.

  I stare down those fuckers and throw them the nastiest stuff.

  I snap the invitation against my palm, TJ’s advice ringing loud and clear in my ears.

  Take a date.

  It’s not a bad idea.

  After keeping on my game face while Natasha, her adoring fans, and random strangers painted me as the bad guy, I’d like to let the world know I’ve moved on. I’ve finally climbed out of the “smile and wave as my marriage implodes on social media” phase of my life, and I don’t want to go down that road again.

  Showing up to support my cousin despite Natasha being in the wedding party will let the world know I’m a good sport.

  Hell, I’m a goddamn good guy.

  Just like I’ve always wanted to be.

  All I need is a date for the wedding.

  But asking the woman I have in mind will require some finesse and a little research.

  Time to see what Google has to say on the subject.

  3

  Sierra

  Today calls for . . . fuchsia.

  It’s my sixth, twenty-ninth, or maybe one-hundredth day in a row running on coffee and determination, but I’m giving exhaustion the middle finger while blasting Ariana Grande as I get dressed for work.

  You know what? This day doesn’t just call for fuchsia.

  It requires a fuchsia satin bra with a black bow between the breasts.

  I grab that sexiest of sexy numbers from the padded hanger in my closet, snap it on, and consider my reflection.

  “Sierra Blackwood, you get a thumbs-up for your devotion to satin,” I tell myself as my playlist switches to Katy Perry.

  Girl power.

  It’s what I need to conquer the night.

  I tug on a black T-shirt that slopes off one shoulder and shows off the cherry tree ink on my arm—always a perfect conversation starter with patrons—pull on skinny jeans, then slide into a pair of black leather ankle boots and I’m ready to go.

  In the living room, I grab a leather jacket and my purse. Tom dozes luxuriously on the purple couch—my big tuxedo rescue does cat incredibly well. Scratching his soft chin, I coo, “Don’t look so happy. You’ll make me jealous, love.”

  He stretches his neck, giving me even more room to stroke his chin. “Hedonist. That’s what you are.”

  My main man purrs like an earthquake, then stretches his legs out in all directions. “I swear you’re mocking me,” I tell him.

  Watch me . . . sleep. Watch me . . . rest. Watch me . . . do nothing.

  I’d like to be reincarnated as my cat.

  What? Where did that come from. He’s a man of leisure. I’m a woman of work. What would I even do if I were brought back as the king of relaxation?

  Nice thought though.

  Definitely a nice thought.

  “I’ll miss you tonight.” I kiss his furry black and white head, then grab my keys, stopping along the way to the door to sniff a vase of orange calla lilies. Mmm. These smell soft and clean, with hints of jasmine.

  But there’s no time to linger.

  I grab a stick of cinnamon gum and pop it in my mouth as I leave my building and walk to work. The sharp, strong flavor is like a hit of adrenaline. A damn necessary one too.

  When I reach The Spotted Zebra, I spit out the gum in a trash can, unlock the door to my bar. Even though I’m running on fumes, I relish the quiet as I head behind the bar, set down my purse, and then seize the few minutes of solitude to whip up some cocktail chemistry.

  Ever since that night he walked me home, I’ve had the idea to create a new drink – liquid courage, so to speak.

  For me.

  I haven’t been able to stop thinking of Chance, and all the things I want to do with him. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been snagging time here and there to perfect a new drink.

  Making it bolsters my confidence. I’m in my element crafting cocktails—playing with liquors and mixes, with measurements and proportions.

  And hell, will I ever need an extra dose of confidence when I finally see him again.

  When I ask him my question.

  As I stir in the tequila, I’m pretty sure I’ve finally got the perfect mix.

  I take a small sip.

  Mmm. Yes.

  This is the “please take my V-card” drink.

  It’s sweet and bold, everything I need to ask a question that has my nerves jumping like grasshoppers.

  But a good drink should settle me.

  Perhaps it’s time to nudge this along.

  I grab my phone and tap out a text. Nothing too bold. Just a simple note, serving the ball into his court.

  Sierra: I’m still not sold on the benefits of being a Cougars fan.

  Seconds after I hit send, three dots appear.

  Chance: I’m working on a very convincing argument. I promise to stop by and wow you with it.

  A burst of excitement flares inside me. Maybe he’ll swing by tonight. If he does, I’ll say damn the butterflies and serve him this drink. Then, I’ll finally woman up and ask him to help me out of my lingerie sometime.

  Sometime very soon.

  A few hours later, the joint is jumping, just the way I like it. Alt-rock plays at the perfect volume to soundtrack a conversation, but not so loud as to require yelling. Patrons lounge on black-and-white striped couches and pink chaise lounges. A chalkboard menu lists my signature drinks, as well as my new creation, which I also posted on Instagram.

  At the bar, I slide the concoction to Trish. I call it Wild Chemistry, and it’s a little bit tequila, and a little bit tropical, and a lot sexy. As she reaches for the glass, she flicks her jet-black waves from her shoulder, parts her perfectly lip-glossed pink lips, then declares, “This is the best.”

  “You haven’t even tried it yet,” I say, giving a smile to one of my most loyal patrons. A woman who put my bar on the map. I love her madly.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Trish says with a breezy shrug, then shows the variation on a piña colada to our friend Clementine. “How much do you want to bet this will be the best cocktail ever?”

  Clementine drums silver fingernails on the counter then dips her pretty voice to a stage whisper. “I won’t bet against Sierra. Her drinks are the bestest of the best. Plus, I had a Wild Chemistry before you arrived, Trish, and they’re divine.”

  “Shhh. Don’t tell her all our secrets,” I say to Clementine Rose, whose name is the perfect kind of perky for the elite pet trainer with a renowned client roster, and a year-long waiting list. The pixie cut and a whirling dervish of a personality complete the promise of her name.

  “Clem, you started celebrating Thursday night without me.” Trish pouts.

  Clementine did indeed start early, and now she’s returned to her signature drink, so she lifts a martini in a toast. “Yes, I did! Because Thursday is a fabulous night, and I always have great dreams on Thursday because tomorrow is Friday. Like, dreams where my star Chihuahua pupils perform pirouettes, or I ride a Pegasus across the sky.”

  And I think I just growled in jealousy. “Those are your dreams?”

  She beams. “Yes, but sometimes I also have simpler dreams. Just your average fantasies. Like, say, there’s a revival of Chess on Broadway starring Hugh Jackman and I have front-row seats.”

  I wish. “Oh, yeah, that.”

  Trish rolls her eyes. “Can I have your dream rather than the one I had last night where the seamstress tailored my wedding dress to . . . vaginal length.”

  Clementine cringes. “That’s terrible. But just think positive thoughts before bed, Trish, and you’ll be fine.”

  I clear my throat. “I beg to differ. I think about sex before bed, and I still dream that I’m late for the first day of school, stumbling into English class with my teeth falling out and no underwear on, not knowing the lines to the sonnet I had to memorize. Or I show up at The Spotted Zebra well past happy hour and customers are lined up outside, tossing overripe bananas at the window.”

  Clementine blinks, her jaw falling open in horror. “Girl, that’s not a dream. That’s a nightmare.”

  “I know,” I say, crinkling my nose.

  Trish sets a gentle hand on mine. “But that’s also a sign you’re working too hard, Sierra.”

  I shrug, dismissing the notion. It’s just a dream. And if dreams meant something, I’d be running from zombies all day long too.

  “You’re always here, though,” Clementine adds, concern etched in her green irises. “It’s like I tell the companions of the dogs I train—you have to rest, or you won’t be a good dog person.”

  “And nothing is more important than being a good dog person,” Trish says, reciting Clementine’s business logo.

  “Except hiring good talent who can help you be a rock star,” Clementine says lifting her glass high in a rocker salute and somehow still managing not to spill a single drop. Then she sets down her martini and turns to the bride. “All right, Miss Miyoshi, but not for long,” she says to Trish. “Let’s catch up on all the plans. Do you have everything you need for the big day?”

  “I think I do.” Trish rattles off wedding plans as I scan the bar. Spotting a goateed patron in need of a refill, I head over and mix him another gin and tonic, making small talk. I’m proud of the establishment I’ve built in only three years. Proud, especially, that my Major League baseball brother loaned me the money to buy this bar and it’s been successful enough to pay him back in less than three years.

  This place is all mine now.

  A lot of that has to do with Trish, a benefactor of sorts who became a friend.

  About two and a half years ago, the tastemaker among tastemakers strolled in, ordered a Long-Distance Lover, then talked up The Spotted Zebra on her cocktail review show that has about a gazillion YouTube followers.

  I am so stinking lucky she discovered my place and fell in love with it.

  Lucky, too, since she and her friends are pretty cool, and now they’re my peeps too.

  I hand the gin and tonic to the goateed guy, then swivel around to restock some liquor. But as I grab another bottle of gin from the back room, an SUV of a yawn drives into my mouth and parks there.

  That’s embarrassing. I hope no one saw that.

  My eyes flutter for a second. Red spikes of pain needle them, that tired sensation. Maybe it’s that conversation about dreams that’s dragging me down.

  That has to be it. A glance at the clock tells me it’s only nine, and normally I’ve got gallons and gallons of energy to make it through a night.

  I leave the back room, return to the bar, and mix a drink for another customer, who wants to know the best fun things to do in the city. The answer is easy-peasy. “You’ve got to try neon bowling at Pin-Up Lanes in the Marina and karaoke in Japan Town,” I say, then it happens again. Another Subaru-size yawn I have to stifle.

  What is wrong with me?

  Work is my life force.

  This bar is my fuel.

  But when I return to chat more with Trish and Clementine, I feel like I’m in the hot back seat of a car on a long road trip, fighting to stay awake.

  This is not the Sierra in fuchsia who kicks ass and takes names. This is not a woman wearing a black satin bow between her tits.

  This is a woman who’s . . . absolutely fucking zonked.

  I can’t remember the last time I took a day off. I’m sure it was in the Joe era, so, more than a year ago. A wasted day, since my ex turned out to be the worst.

  I pour myself an iced tea, guzzle it, and power through the rest of the night, saying goodbye to Trish and Clementine when they take off.

  My eyes are glued to the entrance of the bar the rest of the time, hoping Chance will want to wow me tonight.

  Every time the door opens, I steal a glance until I start to feel like a stalker in my own bar.

  By the time eleven rolls around, my shoulders sag. Fine, he didn’t promise he’d make an appearance, but I do wish he’d swung by. I’m not bold enough to seek him out to ask my question. I want to do it on my home turf, where I feel naturally gutsy.

  For now, I shove the baseball star from my mind. Besides, if he had come by tonight, I might have yawned in his fabulous face as I served him the Wild Chemistry and asked him to cash in my V-card.

  He’s the ideal man for my project. A man I know and trust. A man who’s a friend. A man I’m attracted to. A man who doesn’t seem keen on anything serious.

  I finish up work, closing The Spotted Zebra at one. After I say goodbye to the last employee to leave, I check the inventory, then head to the black-and-white couch by the window. Curling up there, I tally the night’s receipts on my laptop, then review my expansion plans for the bar as I watch the last of San Francisco go to sleep.

  Soon, the streets are quiet.

  And it’s so comfy on this couch.

  So cozy and warm in here.

  The tables on this spreadsheet are just a little fuzzy. Maybe they’d be a little less fuzzy if I shut my eyes.

  A bell clangs.

  Rings loud and painfully in my ears.

  Another one joins in. Like angry church bells in a movie scene with a chorus of clocks ringing.

  My eyes fly open.

  I’ve got to get to The Spotted Zebra.

  Can’t miss opening the bar.

  Customers might be lined up.

  Happy hour is such a busy time, and I can’t be late. Because of the bananas. The overripe bananas.

  Except, why is it so bright at happy hour?

  Peering out the window, I startle as big blue eyes stare back at me in a cherub-like face framed by blonde ringlets. A tiara is perched on the hair of . . . a three-year-old?

  I blink.

  A little girl wearing a pink tutu is pointing at me, laughing, then tugging her mom’s hand.

  Bleary-eyed, I offer a pathetic smile and wave at the mom and young child walking past The Spotted Zebra on a Friday morning at seven.

  Great. Just great.

  I fell asleep at work.

  And I slept for five and a half hours.

  It’s the most solid block of sleep I’ve had in . . .

  Actually, I can’t remember the last time I got five and a half hours in a row. With a yawn, I drag myself through the bar, grab my purse from my office, and root around for a toothbrush. I head into the bathroom and brush my teeth.

  Yanking my hair into a true messy bun—there’s nothing artful about this nest on my head—I return to the couch, grab my laptop, and finish the work I left undone last night.

  Then, I grab my purse, and lock up at the ridiculous hour of eight fifteen when I should be home, snug under my purple duvet, fighting off dreams of losing my teeth.

  I don’t even like to go to Pilates at this time of day.

  I like to sleep.

  As I walk, I pop my earbuds in to listen to one of my favorite female comedians riffing about her great accomplishment in adulting recently—buying a towel.

  I laugh, wishing I were worried about how to buy linen. Instead, I’m obsessed with expansion plans.

  When I turn the corner, I blink as the picture of perkiness comes into view. Platinum-blonde Clementine, who’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in her sapphire blue yoga pants and matching top, is walking with her speed-demon Papillon.

  She flashes a huge grin as she calls out, “Woman!”

  “Woman to you,” I say, a little half-heartedly.

  My friend stops in front of me, parks a hand on her hip, then sizes me up in a split second. “I know your dirty little secret,” she says, wagging a perfectly manicured finger. There’s a tiny painted Papillon on the silver nail.

  My face flushes for a hot second at the mention of my crush on my brother’s teammate. “I know you do. But why are you bringing it up now?”

  Clem tilts her head in question, her brow knitting. “Because look at you. You’re wearing the same clothes as last night. You slept at the bar last night. And you’re in big trouble.”

  Oh. That secret.

  Not the I want Chance to take me one. I groan. “I suck. I know. What is wrong with me?”

  “Well, for starters, you’re married to the bar,” she says matter-of-factly. “You work yourself to the bone because you’re so damn focused on the next thing and then the thing after that. You don’t date even after Joe turned out to be such a gigantic asshat. And you’re horny. That’s all.”