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at animal shelters. She’d tracked down a young puppy in a San Jose shelter last week, but was on a waiting list for him. She hadn’t heard back, so she figured the puppy had gone to another home. She’d just keep checking with more local rescues until another puppy arrived.
    A dog would surely take her mind off a certain someone.
    She repositioned the photo. Then moved it to the other end of the bureau. Or maybe it would look better in the middle. She’d already dusted, swept her floors, and scrubbed clean her kitchen counters. Her whole house was spotless, but her brain kept returning to last night.
    “Crud,” she muttered. She was stalling, and she knew it. She had to go to work in thirty minutes, and Smith would likely be there, working on the construction of the same back room where they’d danced. She’d avoided him today, his calls and his texts wanting to know if she was okay. But she’d have to man up in a few minutes, and what was she supposed to say?
    Hey, you’re a swell pal, and you screw like a rock star, but let’s just pretend last night never happened, shall we?
    Ugh.
    The person she really wanted to avoid, though, was herself.
    She couldn’t believe she’d had sex with Smith, let alone liked that filthy mouth of his. She was a romantic. She had a soft spot for poems and wine and the finer things in life, so how the hell did she get off on a man who liked it down and dirty? He’d sent her into such a heated state, she was barely herself last night. She’d been pulsing, alive and trembling with want. She was supposed to fall for someone classy, who courted her with odes and stanzas, not hot, bossy words as he pinned her to the wall.
    She dropped her head into her hand. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t into that kind of rough play, she didn’t need to be bitten, or manhandled, or talked to like that. But then, maybe she did, because those orgasms he delivered were the stuff you didn’t just write a poem about; those were the kind of Os that made you write an anthemic album that sold millions of copies as everyone screwed and made babies to it.
    She waved her hands in front of her face, as if she could wave off the memories of the Best. Sex. Of. Her. Life.
    She marched into her living room, grabbed a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets and sent a quick prayer to the Bard that he would reset her as the romantic she knew she was. God knew, the novel she’d tried reading this morning hadn’t helped—she’d downloaded a racy romance about two coworkers who agree to a no-strings-attached relationship for one week, hoping that will cure them of the simmering lust they have for each other. Whether their tactic worked was up for debate—she’d had to set the story down when the hero pushed all the papers off the desk and lifted the heroine onto it. She’d been getting too hot and bothered for her own good.
    Settling into Sonnet 116, she reacquainted herself with a reminder of the importance of having something in common with a partner. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” she read out loud, nodding vigorously. Shakespeare was right. She and Smith were too far off the mark; they’d simply never work. Now take her parents—they were two like-minded people. They ran a winery together, they both loved wine and poetry, they liked the same books and movies, they were neat and orderly and they’d lasted through the years. On the other hand, there was Diane and the Douche. Her sweet sister went for the guy she was friends with, the life of the party type, and wound up being saddled with a divorce after only three years.
    The proof was in front of her in her very own family. Smith would never be the kind of guy who could take care of a woman outside the bedroom. Though as soon as that thought touched down in her head, she flashed back to the Spring Festival last year. They’d played a few rounds of Skee-Ball, both their competitive spirits running strong. She’d won twice,