Yes. That’s all. I’m just on a path to burnout and I’m barely twenty-five. “And you dream of unicorns. Fuck you.”

  She pouts.

  “C’mon. You know that was an affectionate fuck you,” I say with as much of a smile as I can muster.

  “Obviously. But I’m worried about you, Sierra,” she says, then bends to pick up her brown and white pooch, who’s waggling his paw at me. “And so is Magnus. We are very concerned.”

  I am too. Trouble is, I don’t know how to combat exhaustion. I never learned that skill in my do everything well for yourself since your parents sucked crash course I’ve been taking for years.

  I heave a sigh and shrug helplessly as I stroke Magnus’s soft head. “Me too. But I don’t know what to do,” I say, since go-go-go is my speed.

  “You need a vacation, Sierra,” Clementine says. “No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  She’s not wrong. But I can’t afford to get away for more than a night. I already moved heaven and earth to snag one night off for Trish’s wedding in Hawaii.

  I kind of can’t wait for those twenty-four hours away from work.

  Twenty-four hours in paradise.

  “Maybe, but I don’t know how to pull it off.”

  She taps her temple. “Leave it to your friend Clem. A plan is coming together. But now, I’ve got to work on Magnus’s pole-weaving skills. Bye for now. More later.”

  With a wave, she heads toward her home, and I make my way to mine. As I go, my mind drifts to flowers and gardens and tropical scents. When I turn on my block, my brother’s standing outside my building, decked out in running gear, stretching his quads, his T-shirt a little sweaty.

  That’s odd. Not the sight of Grant in motion, since that pretty much describes him, but his presence at my door.

  “Are you stalking me?” I call out.

  “Yes. It’s my new hobby in the off-season.”

  “Cool. Mine is . . . talking to my cat and dreaming of Hawaii,” I say drily.

  “You and me both. Well, for the last one. Deck and I are going there in a few weeks.” He’s not going to attend Trish’s wedding. He and his boyfriend are headed to Kauai for a well-deserved vacation several days before I take off for Maui.

  “You’ve only told me twenty times,” I say, then stop, quirking my head as I study my brother, trying to figure out why he’s here. “What are you up to?”

  “I just went for a run, and I’m going to meet Chance and some of the guys at the gym in about an hour.”

  But that doesn’t answer the question. “So . . . were you just waiting for me to come home?”

  Grant stares at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “Um, way to make your brother feel welcome. Hello? We had a breakfast date at eight-thirty. In between my run and the gym. You said to meet you outside your place.”

  I groan, drop my head in my palm. “I forgot. Also, I fell asleep at work. I suck.”

  He wraps an arm around me, gives me a gentle hug, but laughs too. “Girl, what am I going to do with you?”

  It’s a valid question.

  One that’s starting to weigh on me.

  On the one hand, I’ve succeeded at not becoming my parents—I’m twenty-five, a business owner, a college graduate, and a virgin. My parents didn’t go to college. They got pregnant in high school. They flitted from job to job. They avoided all responsibility. They left Grant and me with my mom’s parents. Best decision they ever made, since my grandparents rock. But I don’t want to risk a chance of being like my irresponsible folks.

  So, I bust my ass every damn day.

  Then at night, I fashion expansion plans.

  Just in case it all goes belly up.

  Yay me.

  I’m also running on fumes.

  Something’s gotta give.

  As Grant and I settle into a booth at the café around the corner and I peruse the offerings, I wish the answer were on the menu.

  4

  Chance

  Google and I need to stop meeting like this.

  The search engine knows far too much about me.

  Like: Is Tinder a good idea?

  Worst things that happened on Tinder.

  How to cancel my Tinder account before I use it.

  Like right fucking now because that shit is scary. Scarier than spiders.

  Spiders that live in bathrooms.

  Spiders that can kill you.

  Are all spiders deadly?

  Something to take my mind off spiders…Like, is dating even called dating anymore? Is it grabbing a coffee? Or is it…chilling? Hanging?

  How to ask a woman to hang out with you.

  Is there anything that sounds douchier than asking a woman to hang out with you?

  Ohhhhh. Asking her to have low-key coffee.

  Got it.

  Thanks, Google.

  But wait. There’s one more thing to ask the engine of the Web.

  How to ask a woman to be your wedding date when you haven’t been on a date in ten years.

  What the hell do I say to Sierra? I contemplated stopping by last night when she texted, but I need to get my talking points in order first. Wait. Is that what they’re even called? Fuck, it’s hard navigating dating terrain after a decade-long marriage.

  I met my ex-wife at our freshmen orientation in college and we were together for more than ten years. I’ve never been on Tinder. I’ve never met a woman at a bar. I’ve never picked up a gal at the gym.

  Hell, I’ve never banged a fan, since I’ve been steadfastly single for the last year, and monking it up.

  And my brother was right. I need a date to the wedding. I try again with Google. And I get a lot more specific.

  How to ask a woman to be your fake date at a wedding.

  After all, I can’t ask her for a real date. Team Bro Code Rules and all.

  As I whip up protein pancakes for breakfast, Google serves up the simplest of solutions to my dating query—find an interesting conversation starter, be friendly, and most of all, be direct about the need for the fake date.

  Piece of cake. I can do that no problem. I ponder great conversation starters as I eat.

  Cocktails? No.

  Baseball? She’s probably had enough baseball talk to last a lifetime.

  I glance around my place. Plants? Doubtful she wants to shoot the breeze about my green thumb.

  I finish my breakfast and clean up, then water my succulents. “What would you do, Mariano?” But I answer my question quickly. “Of course that’s what you’d do. You’d find a killer opening line.”

  Next, I feed the panda plant on the windowsill, then give some H2O to the aloe plant, Trevor Hoffman, then, the jade, Dennis Eckersley.

  Three of the greatest closers of all time. I owe them all a huge debt, and I’ve got to represent the position. A closer can motherfucking close.

  At the gym an hour later, with opening lines on my mind, I join today’s workout crew. Grant’s here, along with Shane Walker, a pitcher for the New York Comets, and Harlan Taylor, a wide receiver on the Renegades.

  I move behind Grant on the bench press, spotting him as Harlan does squats.

  “Question of the workout: What’s the most embarrassing place you ever fell asleep?” Grant tosses out as he pushes up the weight bar.

  I answer as I spot my catcher while he lifts. “I fell asleep at the barbershop the other week, getting a shave and a haircut. My guy is such a pro, though, he didn’t even nick my chin while I did the head slump.”

  Shane chuckles as he lifts free weights in front of the mirror. “Thought for sure you were going to say while shagging,” says the Brit.

  “Spoken from experience?” I fire back. Shane—also a closing pitcher—has been in town visiting family, so we’ve adopted him as our workout buddy for the week.

  “Bet that happens to you a lot, Shakespeare,” Harlan quips as he switches to lunges. “Maybe try being better in bed.”

  Shane scoffs. “Please. If I were better, I’d attain god-like status in the sheets. As it is, women say sex with me is rather transcendent.”

  Grant sets down the bar, sits up, rubs his hands along his shorts. “Transcendent as in they have to escape to another plane of reality to make it through even your two pumps?”

  The Brit laughs it off. “Even if I were a two-pumper, those two pumps would be enough to give her multiples from another world.”

  I shake my head. “You are too cocky even for a pro athlete, Shakespeare.”

  “And that level is pretty much maximum-ego already,” Harlan says. “To answer your question—I fell asleep on Abby’s giant teddy bear the other night.”

  I laugh at the mention of his young daughter. “That doesn’t sound so odd. Cute, but not odd.”

  Harlan looks up, pauses his lunges, his brown eyes twinkling. “Oh, did I mention the teddy bear was in the living room and Abby had three kindergartners over, and they decided to paint Daddy’s toenails while he was asleep.”

  We all crack up. When Harlan unties his sneaker and wiggles his rainbow-colored toes, we laugh harder.

  “You’ve got a budding pedicurist on your hands,” Grant says.

  Harlan pats his light brown locks. “I’m just glad she’s not a budding hairdresser.”

  The football player puts his sneaker back on as Shane scratches his chin then gestures to Grant. “And what’s the most embarrassing place you’ve had a lie-in, Grant?”

  “Dugout. In between innings last year. I was zonked from our travel schedule, so I caught a few winks while the end of the lineup was at the plate. Anyway, I guess it runs in the family. Sierra told me she crashed at work last night. Fell asleep on the couch at her bar.”

  Yes!

  That’s the perfect conversation starter to pop the will you pretend to be mine at the wedding question.

  It’s personal, it’s fun, it says I know her.

  I send her a text that I hope is flirty, and I don’t even have to google how to flirt.

  This’ll be as easy as throwing a fastball for a strike.

  5

  Sierra

  On the way to work, I pop into my favorite florist, grab a bouquet of dahlias, and thank Frankie.

  “You’re the best with blooms,” I tell the woman who owns the shop by my home.

  “And you are aces with compliments,” she replies.

  I head to the bar, and when I set the pink dahlias on the counter, already the place feels even more like my home.

  I smell the blooms and have just begun my prep for the evening when my phone pings with a text. It’s in the Clementine and Trish chat.

  Trish: I heard. I hereby officially am ordering you to spend two nights at my wedding instead of one. Who spends one night in Hawaii???? Only workaholic robots like YOU. Turns out our room block has an extra room, so I’m using it as a gift-y for you! You can’t say no!

  * * *

  Clementine: I HAD A DREAM YOU SAID YES, SO I’M MAKING IT COME TRUE WITH MY MILES! MILES! I’M GIVING YOU MILES!

  But I have so much to do to prep for my expansion. After Trish’s wedding, I have an overnight trip to Vegas to check out a potential new hire. Plus, I already booked my ticket to Maui for her nuptials and made my plans. I fly in the night before, and I’ll join the gals in the afternoon for hair and nail prep, then attend the ceremony and reception. I’ll catch a red-eye home that night, sleep on the plane, and be back in San Francisco well in advance of happy hour.

  I planned it to the minute.

  I’m about to reply with a thanks but I can’t accept this when my phone pings with another text.

  Chance: Save the best seat at the bar for me tonight—I’ll be stopping by later. Let the great Cougars convincing begin. P.S. Are you still going to Trish and Blake’s wedding?

  I am, I am, I am!

  Because I have no game, I write back stat.

  Sierra: I’ve got Maui on my mind. And you know I always save the best seat for you. Let’s see if you can convince me.

  * * *

  Chance: Just as a tease—the Cougars have awesome hats. And on that note, I’ll count down the hours till this evening. Look for me around eight-thirty.

  My stomach flips. A time. He gave a time. Who gives a time unless he’s flirting?

  Who says he’s counting down the hours unless he feels a spark too?

  I don’t believe in signs, except maybe this one.

  Maybe I should say yes to Trish and Clem. What if I can swing one more night in Hawaii? One more night where this man will be.

  Could that night be my opportunity with Chance?

  I turn around and hunt for my manager, Zoey. She’s at the chalkboard, writing the names of the drink specials, her red hair piled high in an artful bun. “Zoey, what are the chances you could fill in for me—”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t even know when—”

  “Yes. It’s a blanket yes.”

  She lowers her arm. With chalk in hand, she sets her palm on my shoulder. “Sierra, you need a break. Whenever you need me to fill in, the answer is yes.”

  So, it’s that obvious.

  Huh.

  Maybe this trip is everything I need to recharge.

  And to finally have sex.

  A twofer?

  “Thank you,” I say, then give her the date.

  “Consider it done.”

  The stars are aligning, and all I have to do is take a big breath and lay my panties on the line with the man I want.

  I write back to Trish and Clem and tell them I’ll take them up on their fabulous offer.

  At 8:28, the door swings open.

  Chance strides in, taking up all the space in my mind.

  Dark, wavy brown hair. A bearded jaw that I bet would feel fantastic rubbing against my face, and elsewhere. And that smile. Confident, and a little dirty.

  My skin flashes hot.

  Should I ask him my big question tonight or at the wedding? If I ask him in Hawaii, we both might be feeling the Maui magic as the ocean waves gently loll against the shore. The soft night breeze will kick up the scent of tropical flowers and the sea as we grab champagne and toast to the happy couple. Then I can ask the man if he’d please deflower me.

  I’ve known he’s the one I wanted since the night he walked me home.

  I don’t want to have a one-night stand with a stranger. I want the first man I sleep with to be a guy I like. But he should also be a guy who won’t expect anything more.

  I’m married to work. I have nothing more to give.

  Chance is the same with his job. That makes him perfect for my I’m ready plans.

  Just the thought of what he might do to me in bed sends a hot shiver through me, reminding me what I’m wearing.

  Black lace.

  If he only knew what I wanted him to do to my lingerie.

  As he heads to the bar, he flashes me a smile that’s both sexy and sweet. He holds a pink cap in his hand, and I’m pretty sure that’s for me.

  Screw waiting. I’m going to ask the man tonight.

  6

  Chance

  I shower that evening. I want to look my best when I make my be-my-date-with-a-twist request, so I tug on a gray Henley, since that’s what the guys in TJ’s books usually wear.

  The one universal theme in the books—well, besides love conquers all and everyone likes big cocks—seems to be that dudes look best in Henleys, so I am decked out in my finest.

  I leave my place with enough time to make a pitstop at the Cougars team store. I don’t need Google to tell me to show up with a gift. That’s just common sense. I grab something that makes me think of Sierra, catch a Lyft to Hayes Valley, then get out at The Spotted Zebra.

  I’m a man on a mission.

  But as I push open the door, I’m greeted by an upbeat love song and…the quickening of my pulse. Sure, it’s been a long ass time since I’ve been on the market. But I’ve got this, so I talk back to doubt.

  Dude, you threw the final pitch in the World Series a year ago. That can’t be tougher than asking a woman to be your wedding date.

  Gift in hand, I make my way to the bar, catching Sierra’s gaze as I go. Her brown eyes laser in on me, flickering with mischief. Like something is on her mind too.

  She gestures to the stool in front of her. “The best seat in the house.”

  “It definitely is,” I say as I grab the stool, flash her a grin, and set down the gift. A pink Cougars cap with the big cat logo in sparkles.

  “A Cougars hat. And it is fine.”

  “It matches your streak, and the sparkles are badass like you.”

  She dons the hat and models it like a pro. “Don’t you just know the way to my heart—calling me a badass.”

  I pump a virtual fist. Yes, I can do this. “What can I say? I call ’em, like I see ’em, and I’m pretty sure you’re a badass babe.”

  “Oh, stop, stop. I won’t switch allegiance so easily.”

  I lean closer, lower my voice. “Have I mentioned we have the best closing pitcher in all of baseball? A team needs a man who can seal the deal.”

  And I’m gonna be that guy tonight too.

  Her breath catches. “So does a woman.”

  Oh yes. I like that response a lot. “So, I’ve convinced you to root for the Cougars?”

  She leans in close too, her voice feathery. “You’re getting there.”

  “Excellent. And I hope I’m not breaking the rules by showing up without my teammates,” I say, my tone making it clear that I’m enjoying their absence.

  The fiery blonde behind the bar arches a brow, slaps a napkin in front of me, then says, “Depends on whether you like breaking rules, Chance Ashford.”

  “Maybe I like bending them too,” I say.

  “Do you now?” Sierra parks her palms on the bar, a move that has the fortunate effect of pushing up her tits. Mmm. Tits. The ultimate distraction, but hey, so’s a runner on second base.