I love sex.

  I love sex with him.

  And I want more than tonight.

  But I know that I can’t have it.

  9

  Clementine

  When I shut the front door the next morning, the clock cat’s tail mocks me.

  It says, Time is running out.

  I try to tear my gaze away from its mockery as I unclip Magnus’s leash, then set down the two cups I just snagged at the shop on the corner when I took my guy for a morning bathroom break. I also caught up with Erin on my walk, but I’m going to need more girlfriend time later, since she had quite a night.

  Now, though, I want to enjoy the little time I have left with the man in my bed. After our epic nooky, he asked to stay the night. No idea if that’s normal for deflowering, but I like it.

  My pooch barks, and it sounds like he’s asking, Where’s Shane?

  The answer comes a few seconds later when he strolls out of the bedroom, hair still sleep-rumpled, and looking like all of my morning sex fantasies.

  My brain pops.

  Neurons mix with hormones, and my libido practically purrs.

  He runs a hand through his hair, leans against the doorway, and stretches, looking like sin and dessert all in one package—he’s wearing jeans and nothing else.

  I would like to lick the grooves of all his abs.

  “Morning, love,” he says, then yawns.

  I die.

  I just die.

  There is nothing left of me but my desire.

  “Hi,” I say, and it comes out all strangled, since what I really want to say is Oh my God, can we please screw again against the kitchen counter? Because holy hell, you look like every dirty Tumblr video ever.

  Magnus takes off, running to the man, yipping and dancing.

  Shane laughs, then bends down. “Is this the doggie dance?”

  Oh hell.

  That’s it.

  The strings are starting to attach.

  “I think he likes you,” I say, a little wistful, since what I want to say is He’s not the only one.

  Shane scoops him up in his arms, pets his head, then peers at me. “I hope he’s not the only one.”

  My heart. It jackhammers.

  Not fair, not fair, not fair.

  I grab the cup of tea, thrust it in his direction. “I got you English breakfast.” I lift the other cup. “And a coffee. Black. No presumptions, but I didn’t know which you liked. Me? I’m, like, blood-type O with caffeine. I’ll take it in all forms. You pick.”

  “Tea. Like I said, you can take the boy out of England . . .” With my tiny dog in his arms, snuggled against his bare chest, he strides across the floor to the kitchen, then drops a kiss to my cheek. His breath is minty fresh, and I dance a virtual jig, since I love fresh breath in the morning.

  Love it so much I want more of it.

  I turn my face so I can catch his lips.

  “Mmm,” he murmurs, then kisses me soft and gentle—a tender morning kiss. But one that doesn’t end. One that feels dangerously like foreplay. Like a prelude. He lingers on my lips, brushing barely-there kisses against me like he’s seducing me with slow, tantalizing touches.

  It’s working, Shane. It’s working.

  I’m outrageously aroused already. I’d go through ten panty changes a day if he were mine.

  What?

  Mine?

  That’s not happening.

  That’s not on the table.

  I find the will to break the kiss, and when we separate, a scratchy pink tongue licks my face.

  Saved by the dog.

  I reach for my pooch, then take my boy in my arms. “This is not helping.”

  “What’s not helping?”

  I wave at him. “You being all shirtless and holding my dog and kissing me. That’s why I took him from you.”

  He grins wickedly. “Maybe I wasn’t trying to be helpful. Maybe I was trying to get you back in bed.”

  “Well, it’s working,” I say with a laugh.

  “Excellent.” He lifts the tea, takes a drink. “That was thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

  I shrug with a smile. “I can be thoughtful.”

  “I know,” he says, and then just gazes at me, his lips curving into a grin.

  And I can’t look away. I don’t want to do anything but stare stupidly back at his face.

  My stomach flips. It handsprings.

  And I wish this weren’t ending.

  I put my dog on the floor, trying desperately to break the spell of last night and this morning. I grab my coffee and knock some back. “So, you leave for spring training soon?”

  He jerks his gaze to the cat clock. “Yes, in about eight hours.”

  I blink. “Oh. Do you need to go?”

  He takes another drink, then sets down the tea. “Not yet. I have time.”

  I take one more fueling drink of coffee, then I put it down.

  And I crash into him. We kiss madly. Desperately. In a collision of lips and teeth and bodies.

  He reads my wants, senses my needs, but still, he asks, “Are you sure?”

  “Do you mean, can I handle your monster cock again?”

  Shaking his head, he laughs. “Just making sure you feel good.”

  “I feel great,” I say, and in a minute, I’m up on the counter, skirt hiked up, panties gone, and legs spread.

  He finds a condom in his wallet, then shoves down his jeans to his thighs and slides on the protection.

  Seconds later, he’s in me, and I’m a little bit tender from last night, but I don’t care.

  I want him again, just like this. Fucking me, taking me, having me.

  And it’s like a dream.

  Only better, so much better. Because it’s all real as we moan and rock and murmur.

  And with our bodies speaking the same language, my mind gets ahead of me. Picturing him and us, and third times and fourth times. Then my mouth takes over. “I want this again. Want you again,” I plead.

  With a deep thrust, he groans, eyes meeting mine. “Want you again, too, love. Want you so much.”

  That’s all it takes. Soon, we’re both breathless and gasping, coming together, reaching for each other.

  After, I grab him harder, hold him closer, and he does the same to me. Stroking my hair, whispering in my ear. “I’m so glad I ran into you,” he murmurs, then like the moment has gotten the better of him, too, he says, “I’m going to miss you. I swear I’ll miss you more than I want to.”

  I can hear what he’s not saying.

  Don’t break my heart.

  10

  Shane

  I don’t want to leave her, so I stretch out the hours I have. We go for a walk in her neighborhood, taking turns holding the dog’s leash.

  We catch up on her dog training, and she tells me about her clients, the challenges, and the victories. She asks me about my job, too, how it feels to have been traded so many times already.

  “I suppose it might make someone feel unwanted,” I joke.

  She swats me playfully. “The opposite, silly. You’re very wanted.”

  I kiss her cheek as we reach the corner. “Yes, seems that way. And I like it.”

  We’re talking about baseball and also not talking about baseball.

  As we wander along Polk Street, the world’s fastest small dog leading the way, I ask about her family. “Mom and Dad are still grotesquely happy. My sister too. They truly set such a bad example for everyone,” she deadpans.

  “The worst,” I echo.

  “And your family?”

  “Same, same. Dad is taking Mum to the Galápagos Islands right now. She loves to travel, so they’re spending loads of time just gallivanting.”

  “Gallivanting. I feel like those are life goals,” she says, then she startles at the sound of a beep. “Oh, that must be Erin again. She had an interesting night.”

  I lift a brow in question as she takes out her phone from her pocket, swipes open the screen, then smiles. “I’ll answer it later,” she says as she tucks it away again. “But I think it’s safe to say someone has a crush.”

  “Erin, you mean?” I ask.

  She knits her brow. “Who else would I mean?”

  I laugh, a little embarrassed, almost like I’ve been caught red-handed.

  I meant me.

  Ah, hell.

  I’m leaving in a few hours. No point truly being so guarded. It’s not as if she can break my heart when I’m gone. “Well, it seems I have one too.”

  Her green eyes twinkle with delight. Maybe something else too. Something deeper? Perhaps hope?

  She reaches for my hand and threads her fingers through mine. “Join the club.”

  We grab lunch, then return to her place and her bed once more. After that, we shower together, and then I truly do have to go.

  “You better not miss your flight. I want to cheer for the Dragons on Opening Day, but if their brand-new closer is in trouble for being late to spring training, I won’t be able to,” she says, wagging a finger.

  I grab her finger, nibbling on it. “I have excellent timing,” I say, then I glance at her fingernail. It’s polished with silver, and a Papillon is painted on it. “You found a nail salon that can do dog designs,” I say with a bit of wonder in my voice.

  “Of course I did. You say that like I’d do anything else.”

  She is adorable, and naughty, and open, and kind, and far too risky for my heart.

  “All right, stop distracting me. Now I truly have to leave,” I say, but I’m not letting go of her either.

  I give her one more kiss, and as my lips brush hers, images and ideas flash past me. Future days and nights. Possibilities.

  But last night, we agreed to no strings.

  Crush or not, she doesn’t want something serious.

  And I need to look out for myself.

  That’s why I don’t ask for her number. It’s why she doesn’t ask for mine.

  Instead, I tear myself away from her and say goodbye, then I leave to head to Arizona.

  I’m leaving her for baseball once again.

  11

  Clementine

  A week later

  * * *

  I’m tempted to flip the bird at the cat clock when I leave for class one morning a week later.

  But it’s not the inanimate cat’s fault that I’m counting the hours.

  And for what?

  What am I counting down to?

  “Ugh. I’m the worst,” I tell Magnus as I say goodbye at the door.

  His little floofy tail whips back and forth, his butterfly ears standing tall, cocked in curiosity.

  “Why? Because I’m . . . well . . .” I flap a hand. “I’m all . . . just a mess.”

  I kneel in front of him, and he puts his little paws on my chest.

  “I don’t even know why,” I answer his unasked question.

  He licks my nose.

  “Fine, fine,” I huff, since he’s wearing me down. “I guess I hoped . . . I dunno.”

  I can’t even say it.

  It’s so silly.

  Such a virgin thing to wish for, I’m sure.

  “So typical of the virgin. Wanting more. Falling for the first guy, right?” I ask.

  He jumps a few times, a sign he wants to be held. “You’re such a love monster,” I say with a laugh, sinking down to my butt and cuddling my dude. He rubs his head against my chest, then nuzzles my face. “Ravenous, I tell you. That’s what you are.”

  But maybe I am too. I feel greedy. And wildly hungry. Like I haven’t eaten for days, and I’m starving. For more affection, more kisses, more fucking, and more . . . time.

  But I told him no strings.

  I meant no strings.

  At least, at the time I did.

  I say goodbye to Magnus, pop in my earbuds, and listen to the original Broadway recording of Fun Home as I head to teach an agility class.

  Usually show tunes cheer me up.

  But this time, they aren’t quite doing the trick.

  Later that night, I go out with my friends to dinner. For one of the first times ever, I’m not the cheery one.

  I’m in a bit of a funk, and Erin notices, pulling me aside after sushi. “Are you okay? You’re usually more . . . ebullient.”

  “Nice five-dollar word,” I say approvingly.

  “Please. That’s a ten-dollar word. But seriously.”

  I sigh heavily. She knows the details. “It’s silly. I just wish that maybe Shane and I could have another shot. That maybe he wanted to as well.”

  Her eyes are thoughtful, her tone kind. “Do you know for sure he doesn’t?”

  “He said that,” I tell her, but that doesn’t feel entirely true either.

  His kisses said more. But it was his eyes, and the way he looked at me when he left that said so much—that said he’d missed me, that he already longed for me.

  At least, that was how I read him.

  12

  Shane

  A couple weeks later

  * * *

  Some say spring training games don’t matter. There’s a lot of truth to that for the guys who’ve already made the roster.

  My spot is guaranteed.

  I’ll be ready for Opening Day, should there be a victory to save.

  But guarantee or not, my father taught me that every game matters. You play hard, you pitch well, and you give your all.

  That’s how he played during his career, and that’s what he taught me when I was growing up in England and then later in the States.

  You never know who’s watching.

  You never know who needs you on your team.

  But you should also play well for you. If you don’t, you become complacent.

  That’s why my spring training stats rock.

  I refuse to accept less than my personal best.

  It’s how I was raised. It’s who I am.

  We’ve only just started playing games against other teams here in Arizona, but already I’m putting up strikeouts and saves. Just like I plan to do in the regular season.

  These are the type of stats that’ll impress the owner.

  After I close out a game with three strikeouts in a row, I stride off the field.

  Drew trots over to me from the backstop, tapping his glove to mine. “Nice save, Shakespeare,” he says. “Or should I say, fourth nice save.”

  I shoot him a satisfied smile. “You should definitely say that.”

  That’s a good thing. That’s what my agent wanted. For me to focus on baseball, not romance. Though, admittedly, romance hasn’t been far from my mind since that last night in San Francisco.

  At night when I get in bed, I think of Clementine.

  When I wake up, she’s on my mind.

  When I’m alone, I imagine her.

  And I miss her.

  Good thing I’m not alone too often.

  I shake thoughts of her away, focus on the here and now. The game. My teammates.

  The shortstop and second baseman—Declan Steele and Holden Kingsley—knock fists with me as they head to the dugout. “Keep that up during the regular season, Shakespeare,” Declan says.

  “Count on it,” I say as we continue on to the locker room.

  “Dude, you are the epitome of cool on the mound,” Drew remarks. “I’m telling you, when I’m playing, I have no chill.”

  I laugh at his tell-it-like-it-is attitude. “Because you’re the catcher. You’re allowed to be full of emotion. I have to be ice.”

  Drew furrows his brow. “Why don’t we call you Iceman, then?”

  “Excellent question to ponder,” I say.

  “How about we ponder it over burgers?”

  “I’m in.”

  That night, we head to the Cactus Club, meeting up with Sullivan from the Cougars.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the comedy club crew,” Sullivan jokes as we join him at the bar. “That was a helluva night.”

  He’s reminiscing about one night out from a few weeks ago?

  Interesting. What was so special about that one time?

  I arch a questioning brow. “I take it you’re not simply talking about the comic?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  Drew stares at him, then waggles his fingers. “Spill.”

  Sullivan shakes his head, taking a drink of his beer. “Not my story to tell, but suffice to say, I can’t wait to get back to San Francisco.” He lifts his hand, crossing his fingers. “That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Well, you’re fun,” Drew deadpans. “I can’t wait to get back to the city either, but at least I told you assholes why.”

  “You did, and you’re so bloody adorable, all heart aflutter and whatnot,” I say, teasing him.

  He scoffs. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been moony-eyed since that night too. I’m pretty sure your high school sweetheart is more than just some rando.”

  I tilt my head. Scratch my jaw. “I didn’t tell you she was my high school sweetheart.”

  Drew cracks up, shaking his head. “I know. But I have sources.”

  “And what do your sources tell you?” I ask, and that piques my interest. “Are you talking about Clementine’s friends?”

  He shakes his head in slo-mo. “I’m telling you nothing. But you might want to check yourself later and figure out why you’re so . . . not chill at the mere mention of her.”

  I heave a sigh, then order a beer, ignoring his remark.

  He doesn’t ask again, but as Drew and Sullivan chat about their favorite spots in San Francisco, then debate dream cars before arguing over whether the beach or the mountains is a better spot for a vacation, my mind drifts back in time once again.

  To that night with her.

  Images flash before my eyes.

  Enticing, delicious ones.

  But sweet ones too.

  Laughing, teasing, talking.

  Most of all, how she opened up to me.

  How I opened up to her.

  Then, I skip forward, imagining future days. What would they look like?