Page 8 of Sure Shot
Now her cheeks are rapidly staining to a deep pink, and the sight stirs up some long-dormant feelings in my chest. Bess and I had some hot times together.Reallyhot. We’d both been young and new to New York City and so confident that the universe was going to hand us everything we asked of it. And maybe it did for Bess. I sure hope so, anyway.
No wedding ring, though, my asshole brain notices.
Bess pulls her hand out of mine and takes a step backward. “And you’re here in Brooklyn because…?”
“Traded,” I say gruffly.
“To Brooklyn.” Her low voice is so familiar that it gives me chills.
“Right,” I say, laughing darkly. “And when I found out, I had the same look of shock on my face that you’ve got right now.”
Everybody else laughs, too, and the sound seems to pull Bess out of her stupor. She straightens her spine, and I’m struck by how familiar her body language is, too. I was always fascinated by Bess. Behind that sweet name and nymph-like body is a tough girl. She’s a study in sexy contrasts.
The first time we met, Bess had been a newbie agent, the youngest employee in Henry Kassman’s shop. After sharing a business dinner, I’d taken her to my hotel room, where we’d had the kind of up-all-night, energetic, soul-scorching sex that exuberant youngsters sometimes experience but rarely appreciate.
We’d had a friends-with-benefits arrangement that lasted for several months. It had been magic. I’d never hit it off with anyone quite so well as I had with her.
She’d ended it without really saying why, and I hadn’t had the good sense to be very upset. I’d missed her, and I’d sure as hell missed the sex, but I’d been riding the high of being a young, successful athlete in the big city. I didn’t lack for female attention.
But, man, our chemistry had been on another level. I hadn’t appreciated it while it lasted. And now she pretends not to recognize me?Ouch.
“Excuse me,” Bess says now. She turns her back on me, heading for the house, ducking into the crowd, her hips swaying.
Oh, hell no. She won’t get away from me that easily. I eye the boss’s mansion and wonder where she’ll head next.
“Who needs a drink?” Heidi asks, pulling my attention back to the party. “And who’s willing to play the new winner?”
“I’m very afraid,” Castro says. “But I’ll do it.”
“That’s my boy.” Heidi stands on her tiptoes and kisses him. “I’m going to grab us all a bucket of cold beer.”
“I’ll help you,” I offer. “I need a drink after that whipping you just gave me.”
There are a few good-natured chuckles. Losing to the team’s favorite assistant was probably a good move, even if I didn’t mean to do it.
I head for the bar with Heidi. As I help her tuck bottles of beer into an ice bucket, I feel eyes on me. I finish what I’m doing and glance up.
Busted. There’s Bess Beringer, watching me from the food table. She looks away quickly, embarrassed to be caught.
I don’t know why she pretended not to remember me, when it’s so very obvious she does.
Three
Creamed Spinach and a Proposition
Bess
It’sunlike me to panic. I love pressure. I’m an athlete, for goodness’ sake. In college, I scored goals seconds before the game-ending buzzer. And in my professional life, I’ve wrestled fat contracts out of managers who were determined not to pay up. I’ve removed the hands of grabby, drunk sportscasters from my body without breaking a sweat.
Tonight, though, I’d been unprepared to come face to face with Tank after so many years. I’d seized up completely. Those broody green eyes have always made me stupid.
Thirty-two looksgoodon Tank. His dark, arrogant smirk is the same, but he’s aged into a harder, less boyish version of the man I used to know. His body is less bulky, but more cut. The muscles in his forearms are defined, where they used to be just beefy.
I sneak another peek at him. He looksdangerous. In a good way. All he’s doing is standing in the grass holding a beer, and I still have the urge to scale him like a tree.
The universe is having a laugh at my expense tonight. My birthday looms, which means I’ve already thought of Tank several times today.He’sthe man who’d made my twenty-first so special. It hadn’t been for just the one night, either. Our fling had a shelf life of three or four months. I’d put a halt to it when I realized my relationship with Tank could become a career-ending mistake.
At that point, I’d already landed my dream job as an assistant at Henry Kassman & Associates. Since I’d skipped a grade in middle school, I’d been a very young college graduate. Young and very naïve. My office nickname had been The Rookie.
