I maintain my flirting focus. “But breaking them can be fun too,” I add.

  “Then, you can be a rule bender or breaker at The Spotted Zebra anytime. Now, what can I get for you? Lager? Gin and tonic? The Best Mojito in the City?”

  She just rattled off my last three drink orders. That has to be a good sign she’ll say yes to my request. “Someone remembers what I order.”

  Her lips curve into a grin. “Well, I am a bartender. There’s also my new drink to consider. Wild Chemistry,” she says, sounding even flirtier when she names that cocktail.

  “What would you recommend?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  Your company in Hawaii for a couple days. That’s what I’d like.

  But I’ve got to ease into my unconventional request, and a drink would smooth the way. Drumming my fingers on the bar, I flash back to TJ’s last book. What did the hero drink? Ah, yes. He asked for scotch, naturally. As a hero does—Scotch, Henleys, and big cocks.

  “Scotch please,” I say, then add smoothly, “Macallan.”

  Her grin widens. She leans even closer, so damn close I catch a faint whiff of her body lotion or shampoo—blackberry. “Has someone been reading Come Again?”

  Busted. And I like it.

  “C’mon. Easton Ford can’t be the only man who asks for a Macallan,” I say, naming the hero from that book.

  She smiles, sets a hand on my arm. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

  I’d like to give her a hard time.

  Except…This is a fake date request. You don’t hookup with a teammate’s sister. A teammate’s sister is the kind of woman you take home to meet your mom. Time to settle the fuck down.

  “Hard times are good,” I say, and that feels like just the right amount of flirt for our…situation.

  “One Macallan coming right up,” she says, then pours a couple fingers worth.

  A quick scan of the bar tells me it’s now or never. The place isn’t too crowded yet. She has other servers handling other patrons.

  When she sets the glass in front of me, I whip out my conversation starter. “So, Sierra, word on the street says napping is your favorite hobby,” I say playfully.

  She tilts her head, puzzled, then awareness flickers in her eyes. “Oh my God, did my brother tell you what happened?”

  I shoot her a grin. “Grant did indeed. He just can’t keep secrets.”

  “I can’t believe he told you that. But I also can’t believe I fell asleep here. It was so embarrassing.” She points to the couch by the window. “I woke up at seven with a little girl and her mom pointing at me like I was an animal at the zoo.”

  “I’m a big believer in naps. Relaxation is a very good thing.”

  “It wasn’t a nap, Chance. It was a full-on Rip Van Winkle session,” she says, then she takes a beat, flicks some blonde strands off her shoulder, and seems to shift gears. Her voice even goes a little smoky. “And, for the record, I’d much prefer to have been sleeping soundly on satin sheets wearing a lace teddy.”

  Hello! Did she just say what I think she said? “A lace teddy?” I ask, a little gravelly. Or maybe a lot gravelly.

  “Or a nightie,” she says, with a coquettish shrug.

  My throat is the Sahara right now. Lifting my glass, I knock back some of the liquor. Setting the glass down, I clear my throat. “So I have a proposition for you. About the wedding.”

  Her soft-brown eyes flicker with excitement. “Oh good, because I have one for you. Also about the wedding.”

  I gesture to the floor so she knows it’s hers. “Ladies first, after all.”

  She straightens her shoulders, then removes her hat, setting it behind the bar. Taking a glance around the room, she seems to assess the situation, then swings her gaze back to me. She parts her lips, like she’s about to say something, but seems to reconsider it. “Actually, you go first.”

  That seems fair enough. A gentleman should ask, especially since she seems nervous. Squaring my shoulders, I dive into the deep end. “So, Trish and Blake’s wedding. How would you feel about going as my date?”

  A smile lights up her face as she says, “I would feel great.” She nibbles on the corner of her lips, and I take that as a sign to serve up the rest of the details.

  “But like a pretend date. No pressure or anything like that,” I finish, wishing Google had better instructions for this request, but I’m winging it, and hoping for the best.

  She’s quiet for several long seconds. “Ah, we’d fake date.”

  “It’s sort of an ex emergency,” I explain. “I thought since I’m going and you’re going, maybe we could go together. Natasha is one of the bridesmaids, and I would love to be with . . . a friendly face. The divorce was pretty brutal online—at least, the way she painted it on her feed. Everyone’s going to ask me a ton of questions, and if I’m with you, they won’t.”

  Doesn’t hurt that Sierra is gorgeous, successful, and also fun as hell, but I’m not sure if I should say that yet. Google didn’t shed any light on the nuances of pretend romance.

  “Ohhhhh. You need a fake date,” Sierra says.

  “We can pretend to be together for the night. Maybe take a few pics. You’d help my social cred, which took a beating in the last year.”

  “Through no fault of your own,” she says, crossing her arms, a tough girl vibe radiating off her.

  That’s just . . . hot.

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  “Well, I don’t like that she tried to portray you as a callous ex-husband,” Sierra says, and I bet she’s wearing black leather boots to match her fiery attitude. A quick peek behind the bar confirms my suspicions, and damn, she looks good. “When we all know what really happened.”

  I tap my nose. “Bingo. That was not fun, smiling and waving like nothing bothered me.”

  But that was what my agent told me to do. Best not to engage with Natasha. Keep your chin up and stay out of it, Haven said.

  I listened. I didn’t engage.

  Online, I kept my focus on baseball, volunteer work, my sponsors, and my friendships. And it worked. Staying out of the mess online helped me keep my sponsorships.

  Sierra hisses, narrowing her eyes. “I wanted to punch every stupid Instagram post of hers, especially that one where she slapped up a shot of herself without makeup. This is what starting over looks like. Being brave. Showing the world who you are.” She gags dramatically.

  I laugh, a little bitterly. “I distinctly recall Crosby telling me we were going to post a pic that day of the baseball game we played with kids for charity.”

  “Smart counter-strategy.” She takes a deep breath. “So, the wedding is kind of the same.”

  “In a way, yes. Since I can’t ask you out for real since you’re Grant’s sister,” I add.

  One pretty brow arches. “That’s the issue? My brother?”

  Well, the other issue is I have zero interest in relationships. Only good times. But I’d be a dick if I asked her to bang, especially since I need her help. “Bro code rules. Gotta follow them,” I say.

  “And the rules say you can’t ask me out for real, but you can for pretend?”

  “Bro code is a strange beast. It operates by its own rules. We could also just go as friends since we are friends.”

  She shoots me a look of fierce determination. “Damn straight we are. And so, as your friend, I say, fuck your ex-wife. You’ve got yourself a wedding date.” She extends her hand.

  “Great,” I say, grinning wildly as we shake.

  She lets go of my hand. “But the Blackwood code says I’m going to tell my brother we’re pretend dates. Otherwise, he might hear, and then you’d have the bro code to answer to.”

  It comes out a little saucy, like maybe she’s mocking the dude rules.

  Honestly, the guy guidelines may deserve mocking, but without them, I’m pretty sure the Cougars would fall to pieces. After all, Grant is the guy I’m closest to on the team. He’s the one who catches every single pitch I throw.

  “Fair enough,” I say. “No one wants that.”

  So, why do I feel unsettled? Maybe because she had something to ask me. I return to that. “By the way, what was your proposition?”

  She takes a beat like she’s trying to remember. “What do you know? I was going to ask the same thing. If you wanted to go as friends. Just friends. Nothing more. So, this whole pretend date works out perfectly.”

  And we’re officially on the same page. Except it doesn’t entirely feel that way and I’m not sure why.

  I pick up my glass, drain it, and set it down.

  “Want another?”

  Scanning the board, I consider the options. Should I try the new drink she mentioned? “How’s the Wild Chemistry?”

  “Try it and find out,” she says.

  “I’ll take a Wild Chemistry.”

  She spins around and whips up a cocktail, then sets it in front of me. I lift it and take a drink. “Mmm. It’s a little tropical, and the tequila is just right. And is it crazy to say it tastes a bit sexy?”

  Her lips twitch with the hint of a smile, then the smile disappears. “Not crazy at all.”

  “Is there a story behind the drink?”

  She shakes her head. “Sometimes a drink is just a drink.”

  Sierra turns and heads the other way to help other customers, and soon I leave. I’m feeling both excited for our fake date, but also a little frustrated that it’s not real.

  Imagine that.

  7

  Sierra

  You don’t always get what you want.

  And you damn well don’t cry about it.

  “Do you, Tom?” I ask the next morning as I join my cat on his lounging couch.

  Technically, it’s my couch. But we both know the truth. His hair tells the story of ownership of this piece of furniture. Tom flops to his back, allowing for more belly rubs. I happily bestow them.

  “See? You didn’t caterwaul when I gave you organic chicken instead of the wild turkey that I know you prefer. But the organic chicken is better for your kitty belly,” I say.

  My man purrs louder, letting me know he understands how the world works. You get what you get, and you don’t hiss about it.

  “So I’m not upset that Chance didn’t offer to toss me over his shoulder, carry me up here two steps at a time, kick the door down, then yank off all my clothes and bang me over the kitchen table,” I tell the cat. “Are you?”

  A louder purr is my answer.

  Sure, I had other plans for him. But I said yes to Chance’s fake date request because I know his pain.

  Been there, done that.

  Chance and I are kindred spirits in that department. We haven’t talked about our pasts in detail, but I saw how Natasha spun self-care gold out of her divorce. More like a self-care empire of absolute bullshit.

  I’m convinced there’s a special kind of relationship torture waiting for people who cheat and lie. Like, maybe they can never have orgasms again.

  Or maybe they’re doomed to only kiss people who have wilted-lettuce breath. I certainly hope that’s Natasha’s fate.

  And I hope my ex-boyfriend is racking up more than his fair share of limp lettuce lip-locks and blue-balled nights. If there’s romantic justice in the universe, Joe’s jeans will be too tight in the crotch for all eternity. Come to think of it, I’d like to wish an uncomfortable thong on Natasha for all her days.

  If the tables were turned, and I needed a hot-as-sin, charming, wildly successful man by my side at an event, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask Chance Ashford. And I’d march right into the thick of the party and show that hottie off like the arm candy, eye candy, and brain candy that he is.

  That’s what I’ll do in Maui on our fake date, since cheating exes are the worst. My last serious boyfriend seemed as sweet as a cinnamon roll. Fitting that Joe was a baker, that supposedly adorable sweetheart of a man.

  Turned out, the baker bamboozled the bartender.

  I met Joe three years ago when we were both twenty-two, both virgins. We had a fantastic first date, strolling along the Marina, savoring the bay. We enjoyed several more fabulous dates with the swooniest goodnight kisses ever.

  I wanted a little more. He said he wanted to wait until marriage. That was how he was raised, and it mattered to him.

  Not my preference, but I’d waited twenty-two years at that point. I could wait longer.

  Besides, I loved the guy. Loved his attention, the snickerdoodles he baked just for me, and his foot rubs.

  Plus, our almost-sex life was mostly good enough.

  Sometimes good enough.

  Fine, some nights I was crawling up the walls. I desperately wanted to have sex. Would it be as hot, sexy, and naughty as I fantasized?

  I was ready to find out finally. I’d held onto my V-card till my twenties because I’d made a promise to myself when I was in high school to live differently from my parents.

  No sex in high school.

  No sex in college.

  And, evidently, no sex with Joe.

  Then I discovered that after two years of everything but with him, he was giving everything to someone else.

  Guess that was what mattered to him after all.

  I kicked him out, cried ten rivers with Tom and my friends, then wiped my tears and buried my emotions in work, work, and more work.

  Now, a year later, I’m well over Joe.

  But I’ve also learned my lessons.

  I have zero interest in dating. I don’t want to get hurt. Don’t want to get burned. And don’t want to be made to feel a fool.

  I am very interested in sex, though.

  I’d like to feel pleasure. And I’m quite sure that knee-weakening, toe-curling, pull-my-hair, slap-my-ass-please sex would be the perfect cure to my burnout.

  Yep. I’ve read books. I’ve watched dirty videos. I’m not afraid to explore my fantasies online, to check out all sort of adult content to learn what I like. I’m a subscriber to Joy Delivered’s monthly O-box of battery-operated friends. This woman knows her mind and her body very much.

  And I want that all with Chance Ashford.

  But I also know this—I won’t let an injustice take place on my watch.

  So, fuck “Notes to Self” Natasha.

  Fuck Cinnamon Roll Joe.

  Even if Chance doesn’t want a hot night with me because of a code, I’ll gladly be his fake wedding date.

  As I pet my cat, I send Grant a quick text.

  Sierra: You know that wedding I’m going to in a couple weeks? Chance will be there as well, and I’m going as his date. But don’t go all chest-thumping big brother on me. Don’t spout the rules about dating a teammate’s sister. His awful ex will be there, so we’re only going to pretend to be dating so he can avoid the fire of dating questions.

  * * *

  Grant: I can’t believe you think I’m a chest thumper.

  * * *

  Sierra: I can’t believe you think you’re anything but.

  * * *

  Grant: Look, I think it’s cool that you’re going to be by his side. And I don’t have an issue with the whole teammate’s sister thing. Just don’t want to see you get your heart broken. Not by anyone. It’s my job as your big brother to look out for you.

  I laugh, rolling my eyes. He’s such a big brother.

  Sierra: You don’t have a thing to worry about. My heart is not in the equation.

  Because I won’t let it be.

  The next day, I power-walk with Clementine, though our pace is closer to a jog thanks to Magnus. He won a national dog agility competition last year that went viral and became known as Flying Magnus, the country’s fastest little dog—busting records as he weaved through poles, raced through tunnels, and climbed up and down seesaws.

  As we attempt to keep pace with Super Dog, I give my friend the download on the wedding date with Chance.

  When we hit the corner of California, Clementine tugs gently on the leash, and Magnus sits instantly, waiting to cross till he gets a command. “You’re going to pretend date the guy you’ve been lusting after? Just want to make sure I’m getting all the cray-cray details just right.”

  Is it crazy, though? Seems more like I’m being helpful. “Yes, but it’s only for one event, and it’s for solidarity.”

  With a laugh, she says go to the pooch, and we cross the street at a fast clip. “That is so sweet of you to provide a solidarity fake date to the guy you want to bang.”

  “That’s what fake dates are. Expressions of solidarity and friendship. No one should face the inquisition of the ex alone.”

  “Ah, it’s a great gesture of good will too?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “And will you dance with him?”

  That’s a good question. But it’s a wedding. Hard to imagine we won’t. “Probably.”

  Clementine bumps me with her hip. “Oh, baby. You’ll get to feel that big, baseball body up against you. Yum.”

  I roll my eyes. “Are you trying to tempt me?”

  “I highly doubt I need to tempt you. I think you’re already tempted, Sierra. Just imagine dancing with that hunk of a man when he’s wearing a suit. Wait. Will he wear a suit to a Hawaii wedding? Oh, will he have a Hawaiian shirt on and linen pants? Who cares! Either will be smoking.”

  I try to picture what Chance might be decked out in, and honestly, anything would look good on that man. “Exactly. He can wear whatever he wants.”

  “Athletes just look hot in anything.”

  “Does someone have a thing for athletes?”

  Clementine bats her lashes, waves a demure hand. “You know there’s a certain someone in my past. But it doesn’t matter. I’m off the market, and we’re talking about you, you, you,” she says. “So you’ll probably dance with Last Chance Train.” That’s the nickname sports talk hosts gave Chance years ago. Opponents like to say the last chance train is pulling out of the station when he takes the mound, since he’s so hard to eke a hit off. “You’ll shimmy with the hottie. Put a hand on one of those sexy biceps. He’ll wrap his arm around you. Maybe you’ll plant a kiss on his cheek.”