“You better,” she says, squeezing my fingers harder, tugging me closer here at the bar, guiding my hands to her hips. Happy to have them there.

  It’s so public, and we’re on display.

  But I don’t care one bit about that.

  I stand, and she stays seated on the stool, parting her legs ever so slightly.

  I move in between the V of her thighs, sliding closer, enjoying the heat radiating between our bodies. I gaze into her green eyes, shimmering with lust.

  Then I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb along her jaw.

  Her breath comes in a quick pant.

  And all at once, I recall perfectly how she likes to be kissed.

  Clementine Rose likes to be taken.

  Holding her face, I drop my lips to hers. A soft murmur greets me as I shut my eyes and capture her mouth with mine.

  She stretches her neck, giving herself, offering her mouth.

  And I take it, kissing her gently.

  Her body melts under my touch, her hands looping around my neck.

  She’s like an old-time Hollywood starlet, all glitter and dreams.

  And that’s the kind of kiss I give her—a silver-screen one. The kind where the heroine leans back and lets the hero lead.

  But her hands play with the ends of my hair, and her sexy little sighs say, Keep going, give me more.

  Her subtle body language asks to be swept away.

  To be consumed.

  That’s exactly what I want to do with my high school sweetheart, especially since kissing her feels not quite like coming home . . . but more like stealing home.

  She’s a dream to kiss, a woman wanting all that I have to give.

  And I want to give.

  I want to give her anything she wants.

  Not because I’m magnanimous.

  Please.

  I’m a man lusting after a woman, craving her body, her lips, her pleasure.

  Her.

  I want to give her everything because I’m greedy too. I want all the things she seems to be offering by the way she’s moving, arching her body, sliding her tongue tenderly along my bottom lip, then whispering, “More,” against my mouth.

  That’s my cue to go full black-and-white movie with her. I kiss her like she’s the woman I’ve come home to after all this time.

  Like we’re crossing the years, erasing them.

  We’re reconnecting with our lips and mouths, with breath and touch.

  With heat and desire.

  I deepen the kiss, stroking my tongue against hers, exploring her. I lose myself in the sweet, decadent taste of her mouth and all her vibrant Clementine-ness.

  She pulls me closer, her fingers tangling in my hair, her lips hungry.

  In a heartbeat, she sits up higher, then scoots off the stool. And holy fuck, she drops her hands from my hair, grabs my waist, and jerks me close. In a quick switch, she’s suddenly kissing me hard and hungry, like she’d be devastated if we didn’t fuck tonight.

  Join the club, Clementine.

  Fucking join it.

  I’ve got to have her.

  She presses her lithe body against mine, groaning into my mouth when she rubs against my erection, and yes.

  Time to go.

  Absolutely time to ditch this bar.

  I’m about to break the kiss, catch my breath, and invite her home when she wrenches apart from me, then says, “Come over tonight.”

  And I’d like to thank the baseball gods for trading me to San Francisco.

  “Yes,” I say. That’s the only answer.

  But not quite so fast.

  “I need to say goodbye to my friends,” she says, sounding like she’s coming up for air, collecting her thoughts.

  “I suppose I should do the same,” I say, though Sullivan and Drew won’t give a flying fuck.

  Still, when Clementine strolls to the tables near the stage, that gives me a chance to sit down, let the blood divert to other parts of my body.

  Perhaps the brain.

  There. A minute or two later, I’m not sporting the evidence of her effect on me, so I make my way to say goodbye to my mates.

  I reach their table, interrupting a debate on Elmore Leonard versus Raymond Chandler.

  “Chandler,” I declare, since bar debates can be entered at any moment.

  “Give your reason,” Sullivan demands, sounding and looking like Ryan Reynolds.

  “He was an American and a Brit. Naturalized as a British subject,” I say.

  The darker-haired Drew scoffs. “That’s a selfish reason. It’s all about you, isn’t it, Shakespeare?”

  “Speaking of me,” I say with a wicked grin, since why hide the thrill of tonight? “I’ll see you at spring training. Well, you,” I say, pointing to Drew, since he’s my Dragons teammate. I pat Sullivan on the shoulder. “And we’ll see this poor tosser when we destroy him on the field.”

  “There will be no destruction of the best team in baseball,” Sullivan says, then tips his forehead in the direction of Clementine, who’s chatting with three women. “Didn’t take you long to decide romance was back in the cards, bud?”

  Drew sets a hand on his heart. “So cute that you found a woman on Valentine’s Day. I’m gonna write a poem for you.”

  I play it cool, scoffing. “Who said anything about romance?”

  Sullivan rolls his eyes. “You’re so pathetic. You’re smiling like you just saw your long-lost lover.”

  Am I that transparent?

  Perhaps I am.

  Maybe I need to remind myself that I’m sitting on the bench.

  Love isn’t part of my San Francisco plan. I refuse to fall for anyone. No matter how easy it’d be to fall for her. I’ll have to tell her I’m not in the market for romance. That I need to focus only on baseball. That tonight is just one night.

  I’ll tell her in the Lyft, and if she’s looking for something longer, I’ll say goodbye to her at her door, à la gentleman that I am, then head on home. Only fair to put my cards on the table.

  “I’ve got everything under control,” I tell the guys. “Just like I do when I come into the ninth inning.”

  “Always cocky underneath that I’m so likable exterior,” Drew teases.

  “All right, fuck off, you sad sacks,” I say, then smile when Clementine weaves through the crowd on her way to me.

  “Dude, you’re so far gone already. Look at your goofy grin,” Sullivan says, too loudly for my taste.

  “See you at spring training, arseholes,” I say, then start to head to the exit. But before I turn away, Drew catches the eye of a brunette, then says to Sullivan, “Hey, that’s Erin Madison. The local sports reporter you’ve been hot for for the last year.”

  My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. “And the plot thickens,” I say to the guys, then shift gears when Clementine arrives by my side.

  “Ready?” I ask the woman I want to spend the entire night with.

  And maybe more.

  Settle down, heart. You’re taking a break.

  But my heart thumps harder when her eyes lock with mine, and she answers me with “More than you can ever know.”

  Pretty sure my plans are going tits up.

  In every way.

  6

  Clementine

  Clearly, fate is my friend tonight.

  My brand-new bestie.

  There’s no other explanation for kismet dropping this man into my orbit twenty-four hours before my plans to fling myself into the Battle Royale of Tinder dating and mating.

  Sure, I’ll still enter the ring, but bumping into Shane Walker on Dating Eve is like drawing a winning hand in Vegas.

  He’s not only an ace—he’s all four of them.

  But I also know it’s only fair to give him the 411 on my lady sitch. Sure, my virginity is truly only my business, but I’m also big on honesty. It’s not a secret I want to hide from him. I’d like him to know, just in case sex gets weird.

  Nerves prickle across my skin, racing up my neck as we slide into the Lyft, and I gird myself. I practice what to say like I practice my dog training tips before seeing a new client.

  I’ve been training dogs for years, but every pooch is unique.

  Don’t worry. He’ll get the hang of it.

  What a good boy!

  Yup. I’ll just mix them up a bit.

  I’ve been training with vibrators for years, but I bet your dick is one in a million.

  Don’t worry. I’ll get the hang of it.

  What a big cock!

  There. I can do that. I can definitely say all that.

  Except . . . Shane is kind of a ten. Fine, he’s totally an eleven.

  Ugh, will he be turned off?

  Turned on?

  Freaked out?

  I have no idea.

  Guys are strange. Sometimes I do think they are aliens, wrapped occasionally in hunky packages and shot in pods from the hulls of spaceships to vex straight ladies here on Earth. Like, can we possibly ever figure out how to talk to men in the same language?

  I swear dogs are easier to understand.

  But I’ve got to try with Shane.

  I want my bad luck streak to end, and I want it to end tonight.

  Trouble is, my throat is dry now that we’re zipping through the city, hell-bent on Pound Town.

  He’s quiet too, looking a little lost in thought as we sail along Bay Street.

  That’s not good for a V-card partner.

  “So,” I begin, hunting for words as I scan the too familiar sights.

  “So,” he adds, sounding a little awkward too.

  Oh shoot.

  Is he getting cold feet?

  That would be just my luck.

  “Did you, um, miss the city?” I ask, then want to smack myself. I’ve spent the last hour with him making flirty, dirty talk. Now, I’m regressing to small talk?

  “I did. It’s good to be back,” he says, then rubs his palms along his jeans. A sign of nerves too.

  Yup. He’s losing interest.

  We’ve entered the small-talk zone. Where sex dreams go to die.

  Shane clears his throat. Here it comes. The letdown. Three, two, one.

  He points out the window at the Luxe Hotel, a gorgeous, chi-chi place that opened a year ago. Maybe he wants to escape in his pod and fly to a room there on the top floor. “Wait. Wasn’t that . . .?”

  Ah, that’s easy enough to answer. Perfect conversation topic to get the flow going again. “Yes, that was the once-upon-a-time Carter Club. They razed it when the Luxe Hotel came to town. No more mothballs. No more seventies cheese. All the shag carpets in the hall are gone. Now it’s trendy and hip, with purple velvet chairs in the lobby and too-cool-for-school artwork and low lights, and there’s a lounge with all sorts of fantastic cocktails with names like Gold Rush and Mining Country,” I say, and fuck a duck. I’m going on about a hotel now.

  Shut up, Clem.

  “So clever,” he says, adding a chuckle, and that feels fake.

  The flow is not flowing.

  How has this delicious night gone to hell already?

  What happened?

  I retrace our steps, trying to pinpoint the moment we turned into the Awkward Zone. Let’s see. Back at the club, after our swoony kiss to end all kisses, I said come over, he said yes, we saw our friends, and we got in a car.

  Wait, did something happen with his friends?

  Maybe that’s it?

  “Anyway, where do you live?” he asks, breaking the awkward with . . . more awkward. Since it’s his Lyft app we used. We entered my address into his freaking app. He knows where I live.

  I fix on a friendly smile. “Cow Hollow,” I say, gesturing to the driver’s phone. “You know, where we’re going and all.”

  He smacks his forehead, a little embarrassed. “Right, right. Of course. A bit daft for a second there,” he says, and he’s not the Shane of ten minutes ago.

  He’s someone else.

  A male alien. A male-lien.

  Or maybe he’s like Steak Guy, and he wants to check out my freezer first for meat storage before he lets me down.

  What would I do if a dog training sesh went off the rails?

  Think, Clem, think.

  I got it!

  “That’s okay. We can try again,” I say, in my best peppy trainer voice, like I’m talking to a stubborn Chihuahua.

  Shane jerks his gaze to me. A line creases his brow. “What?”

  Oops. That was the wrong strategy too.

  Nothing is working. No wonder I’m the queen of terrible dates. I am a terrible date.

  “I don’t have a big freezer,” I blurt out.

  And fuck ten million ducks.

  It’s official. I’m clearly the reason I don’t make it to the fifth date. Here I am on the first date with an amazing guy, and I don’t know how to handle a single thing, including . . . talking.

  But maybe my former high school boyfriend does, since a sly smile sneaks across his handsome face. “Do you need to freeze something, Clementine? Or is that just your secret code for wanting to stop and get some ice cream?”

  In one quick retort, he’s back to fun, flirty Shane.

  A cue for me to return to fun, saucy Clem?

  But the foot I shoved in my mouth is still lodged uncomfortably in the back of my throat, and as the Lyft driver—a lovely brunette who doesn’t speak—slows at the light, I unspool all the worries I’ve built up in the last several minutes.

  “I’m the queen of terrible dates,” I confess, all the words spilling out. “I’ve had a string of comically bad dates for the last few years. So bad they belong in a joke book. I dated a guy who wanted to check out my freezer for steak storage. Someone else asked for a twofer—he wanted to take me out for a latte and get dog training advice for an unruly Yorkie. Another guy brought his mom on the first date. I kid you not,” I say, holding up a hand like I’m swearing an oath.

  Shane exhales, all calm and cool. Then he places a palm on my leg, and oh, that’s nice. I like his touch. It’s easing my nerves.

  “Let’s tackle each of those,” he says. “My mom already met you at a baseball game years ago. Thought you were great, so she won’t be popping over tonight. Plus, not my style. Second, I don’t have pets, so don’t need a training twofer, but someday I’d like a cat, and I plan to name him or her Lennon, and if he or she poses any trouble, I’ll just ask the internet what to do. And three, I promise I have a very large freezer and zero interest in ice-cold steaks.”

  I let out a huge breath of relief for all of that, for every word of his lovely reassurance, but I’m not done. Not even close. “Good. But those guys are nothing compared to the last guy I went out with. Everything was going swimmingly with him. I liked him a lot, then he climbed Mount Everest, said he wanted to use his body for more noble pursuits, and he no longer wanted to have sex at all with anyone,” I spit out. “And that really bummed me because I think I would like sex. Like, a lot.”

  Shane’s hazel eyes brim with shock. “I can’t even imagine a more noble pursuit than sex. Or, frankly, than the pursuit of female pleasure.” Then he stops, lifts a hand, blinks several times, and shakes his head. “Wait. Hold the bloody hell on. Did you just say you think you’d like sex?”

  That question makes landfall right as the world’s most silent rideshare driver pulls to the curb. She shoots us a cheery grin in the rearview mirror. “Here we are. Good luck with your sex talk. I hope this drive was as good for you as it was for me. How about a five for five?”

  I guess she makes up for in listening what she lacks in talking.

  “Thanks. I’ll be sure to give you five stars,” Shane says, then we unbuckle and scoot out of the car, standing under a streetlamp outside my home. My maybe-sorta-I-don’t-know-what-he-is-anymore date lasers his eyes on mine. “Let me ask that again, Clem, now that it’s just us. Did you just say you think you’d like sex?”

  And . . . he hates virgins.

  Clearly.

  We’re no longer heading straight for Planet Bed, where the male-lien and the Earth girl will play Take Me to Your Penis.

  Still, I’m a woman who knows her mind, and it’s time to woman up. No more galloping brain or blurty mouth.

  I know what I want.

  Honesty, trust, and a little nooky.

  Time to say the whole truth.

  I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and take a breath. “Yes, I did say that, because I like the idea of sex. I think about sex a lot. I like to watch videos of men making women feel incredible in bed. I like to get off to thoughts of what that might feel like when someone else does that. I want to know what sex feels like. Ideally, good sex. I’m a virgin, but I’m not innocent. Not one bit.” I tap my temple. “So yes, I think about sex a lot, and I also think I’d really, really like it.”

  I expel a big breath, a lot relieved, but there’s more to say. I gear up for round two as a smile tips the corner of his lips.

  That emboldens me and so do his words when he rasps out in a smoky, knee-weakening voice, “You don’t sound too innocent, Clementine. Not one bit.”

  That’s all I need to keep going. “I just haven’t met the right guy—someone I want to sleep with. I want someone who’s funny and thoughtful and reasonably attractive, but I’m not looking for a relationship. Not at all. So please don’t think I’m waiting for Mr. Right,” I say, borderline imploring both for him and for me. I can’t quite read his response though—a furrow creases his brow, and his eyes turn more intense, but he stays focused, clearly listening. “I’ve been there, done that. I’ve tried. I’m so over trying, Shane. Honestly, at this point, all I truly want is Mr. Right Now. I’m twenty-five, and I thought I wanted to wait to have sex till I was in a serious relationship, but I can see that isn’t going to happen, and I’m super okay with that.” I smile and shrug lightly, easily, so he knows how very okay I am with no strings. “I don’t need more, I don’t need commitment, but I would like more of your body tonight. I’m still incredibly turned on from how you kissed me, and I’d really like to sleep with you with no expectations.” I take a beat, draw a final, fortifying breath, then finish with my official request. “If you’d like to sleep with me too.”

  There.

  I did it.

  I put myself out there in a big, scary way.