Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(8)

“My motto is simple,” he’d told the table, his wine glass practically disappearing into his big hand. “In any situation I just ask myself, what can I get away with? And then I do that.”

Everyone had laughed, but the idea had stuck with me. To this very day, I remind myself of his words when I feel intimidated. What can I get away with? It had been a powerful dose of wisdom for a young, clueless woman trying to make it in the testosterone-soaked world of professional sports.

Tank had been so comfortable in his own skin. As I’d gazed at him across the table, I’d relaxed for the first time since starting my job six weeks earlier. And when the meal ended, I’d been a little drunk and completely in love with my exciting New York City life.

I was also half in love with Tank, with his wavy brown hair and broody eyes.

Afterward, Henry Kassman had cars waiting outside to take everyone home, but one car had been running late. “You take this one, Mr. Kassman,” Tank had offered. “Age before beauty. I don’t need a car. Heck, I’ll share with Bess. She can drop me at the hotel on her way home.”

I’d felt jitters in my tummy at the sound of my name on his lips.

“Sounds like a plan, son, if Bess doesn’t object,” Henry had said. “Good night, everyone. Go home, get some rest, boys. You’re going to need it for the rest of training camp.”

I’d gotten into that car with Tank and given the driver the address of the tiny studio apartment I’d rented in a walkup building in the West fifties. “And there will be a first stop, at…” I’d turned to Tank for instructions.

He’d lifted my hand and kissed my palm, sending tingles through my body. “Let’s make it one stop, instead. Your birthday isn’t quite over yet, right? And I’m really good at celebrating.”

After I’d gotten over my shock, I’d stammered out my approval of this plan. Then Tank had placed a hand on my knee, given it a dirty squeeze, and told the driver to take us to the Marriott Marquis.

The man hadn’t been lying. He’d been exceptionally good at celebrating. Then, and for many nights afterward.

Fast forward nine years, and I’d shaken the man’s hand, pretending I didn’t remember any of it.

I sneak another look at Tank, wondering how to privately apologize. His gaze jumps right to mine. And then it darkens, sweeping down my body with a bold, possessive slowness.

Holy heck. My neck heats as I turn away. Even after all these years, it’s shockingly easy to remember running my hands over his chest, cataloging all the dips and valleys of his muscled torso. It’s not an exaggeration to say that everything I know about sex, I learned from him. He hadn’t been my first lover, but he’d been my first good one. My only good one, if we’re being honest.

Not that I should be allowing myself to have these thoughts. I know for a fact that he’s married. The day I’d found the wedding pictures on social media was the last day I’d allowed myself to look him up.

I scan the yard, looking for his wife. I’ve obviously never met her. But maybe I should. It might snap me out of my reverie.

There aren’t any unfamiliar women outside, though. She must be in the house. Meanwhile, I’d better get my apology speech ready. It’s only a matter of time until I bump into Tank at the team facility. I’m sorry your hotness temporarily scrambled my brain.

No, it’s bad form to blame the victim. I’m sorry that old memories briefly interrupted the brain function of this sex-starved woman in the throes of a midlife crisis.

That’s too pathetic to say out loud. Even if it’s true.





Avoiding Tank, I eat some excellent barbecue with my brother. When we’re finished, I carry our plates into the house. The enormous kitchen is buzzing with caterers, one of whom takes the plates from me. I’m walking toward the door when I spot my new business partner in the dining room, chatting with Rebecca Rowley-Kattenberger.

I duck in to say hello. “Hey guys! What are you plotting?”

“Bessie!” Eric says, waving me over. Rosie is strapped to his chest in a carrier, and when she spots me, she lets out a little squawk of greeting.

“Ooh! How’s my girl?” I croon.

“I’m just dandy, thanks for asking,” Rebecca jokes. Then she grabs me into a hug. “How are you? Are you settling into your new apartment? Is it great?”

“It’s getting there. I barely have any furniture, but I hate shopping.” Without asking for an invitation, I unclip the front of Eric’s baby carrier so I can hold Rosie.

“Well, I don’t hate shopping,” Becca says, clapping her hands. “Just say the word if you need a little company.”

“You don’t have time to help me pick out a coffee table.” I hug Rosie as she tries to grab fistfuls of my hair.

“Hey, I can make time,” Becca says. “Especially if there are rugs involved. And throw pillows. By the way—I love your dress. You must not hate shopping that much.”

“No, she really does,” Eric says. “And I’ve never seen her in a dress before. I didn’t even know she had knees.”

“Eric,” Becca squawks. “That’s no way to treat your boss.”

“Are you kidding? She teases me all day long,” he says. “This is just self-defense.”