Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(21)

“Hey,” Becca says as she strokes the brush over my pinky fingernail. “What’s with the sigh? Is there some hottie you’re trying to forget?”

“There was someone. A long time ago,” I hedge. I can’t tell them about Tank, because both these women work with him now. I’m not a gossip.

Although everyone else seems to be. After our interlude last month, I couldn’t resist stalking the internet for news about his trade. I’d found a lot more than I bargained for. Tank punched his co-captain? Talk about a career-killer. If one of my athletes had done that, I would’ve flown down there and kicked his ass myself.

I know better than to believe the gossip rags. So it’s impossible to guess what really happened. And speculating about it makes me feel guilty. Tank has only been good to me.

The only way to stop thinking about him is to find a man who makes me feel as sexy as Tank does, but who’s also ready to settle down. Is that really too much to ask?

“Ooh, this color goes great with your skin tone!” Georgia says, looking down at my rosy fingertips. “How come you’ll give Bess a pink polish, but you make me wear bright colors?”

“This isn’t pink. It’s rosé. And it matches her blouse,” Becca says, capping the bottle. “You’re getting orange tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a new orange polish, and you’re my favorite guinea pig. Sit down already and just take your beating.”

“What are you calling this place, anyway?” Georgia grumbles. “The Nail Nazi?”

“The Colorbox Bar, I think,” Becca says, ignoring the slight. “Or Sips and Tips. I haven’t decided. Input is welcome.”

“You can have both,” I point out. “Colorbox can be your title, and Sips and Tips is your descriptive subtitle.”

Becca looks up quickly. “You’re good at this.”

“That’s my college degree talking. I did a double major in management and marketing.”

“Handy.” Becca peeks at the clock on the wall. “Go stick your hands under the dryer, okay? It’s going to be time to meet your finance guy soon.” She waves Georgia into my vacant seat. “Now let’s see what I can do with you.”

Fifteen minutes later, they send me on my way. “Don’t be late. But let us know if you need a rescue!”

“Thank you both,” I say, waving my fingers like a maniac, trying to make sure the polish is sufficiently dry. “This was the pregame party that I never knew I needed. Do I look okay? Does this outfit say, ‘Fun, but not a pushover? Serious, but not too serious?’”

“That outfit says ‘You’re lucky to date me.’” Georgia gives me a bright smile. “Now go have fun.”

“I’ll try.”

And I do try. Our date is at Cecconi’s, an upscale restaurant in a beautiful room with a view of the Manhattan Bridge out the window. I laugh at Brian’s jokes. And I ask him about himself, which turns out to be a good choice because Brian’s favorite topic is Brian.

“I’ve been a derivatives trader for twelve years. Actually, my true function is originating debenture debt from triple-A rated GSEs.”

“GSEs?” I ask, as if I understood any of the other words in that sentence.

“Government Sponsored Entities. Like FreddieMac. I underwrite their debt, swapping their floating-rate borrowing needs into the fixed-rate callable debt which is more palatable to retail investors. We’re selling implied volatility and arbing the flat-yield curve.”

I take a hearty gulp of my wine and try to admire the five o-clock shadow that defines Brian’s jaw. He’s a decently handsome man, as long as you can overlook the unibrow. “And what do you do for fun?” I’m hoping it’s something I’ll understand.

“Go.”

I blink. “Go where?”

“Go is an ancient Chinese strategy game. It makes chess look as simple as tic-tac-toe. The number of legal possible board configurations has been estimated to be greater than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“That sounds exciting. I mean, it’s no hockey game, but…” I wait for a laugh, but it doesn’t arrive.

“Hockey?” He frowns. “Now there’s a gruesome sport. I don’t get the appeal at all.”

Wait, what? “Did you happen to notice what I do for a living?”

“Something to do with management?”

“Sports management,” I clarify. “I’m an agent. For hockey players.”

He cocks his head to the side, as if I’ve begun speaking Yiddish. “But you’re a woman.”

I’m replaying his asinine statement in my head when two things happen in rapid succession. The first is that our food arrives. A plate of chicken marsala with cremini mushrooms and fettuccini lands on the table in front of me, and I’m really fucking happy to see it.

The second thing is something I’m less happy about. When I look up again, Mark Tankiewicz is seated at a nearby table, handing off a menu to a waiter, and watching me.





Ten





99.9% Identical





Bess





Seriously? I don’t run into the guy for almost nine years, and now it’s twice in the space of two weeks?