Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(34)

“Every interaction I had with Palacio,” Castro says, “made me think he’s a big bag of dicks.”

“A big bag of dicks who can score,” I point out.

“Can we beat them in January?”

“God, I hope so.”

Castro grins. “Good. See you tomorrow.” He turns on his Chuck T’s and strides off toward Water Street.

On the walk back to the hotel, I check my texts. There’s two of them, and I have this moment of happiness, because I’m expecting to maybe hear from Bess. Honestly, I’m like a school boy with a crush. I can’t stop thinking about her, and I keep wondering when I’ll get to see her again.

A month ago I would have told you that I was too jaded to have a hot fling so soon after the end of my marriage. Sex was just about the last thing on my mind. But this week it’s practically all I think about.

Unfortunately, none of my messages are from her.

When I arrive at my hotel, the concierge offers me a fluffy croissant. I decline, because sometimes a guy needs some protein. “Do you have a recommendation for a Tex-Mex place that delivers?”

“Of course. This one is my favorite.” He opens a desk drawer and then hands me a printed menu. “The pork tacos are divine.”

“Thank you. Appreciate it.” I take the menu and head upstairs. The bed in my room has been made, and my clothes are folded in a pile.

Maybe I could just live here forever. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with the reality of my new life. I flop down on the bed to peruse the menu. I’m just about to place an order when someone knocks on my door.

That’s weird. It’s not like I have friends.

When I open the door, I’m stunned to find Bess Beringer standing there in tight black slacks and a flowing wine-colored blouse that shows a hint of cleavage. Well, hello. A single glimpse of her makes my body tighten. I’ve been thinking about her for days. Even when she yelled at me last night, it barely made a dent in my libido.

I’m about to make a sleazy crack about having a nooner when I notice her pinched expression and agitated body language. So I merely hold the door open wider.

“I fucked up,” she says, stepping through the door.

“Okay? Is this about last night? ’Cause I’m over it already.”

“No,” she says, and her voice is so low that I start to worry.

“Come sit.” I walk over to the sofa and perch on the arm, hoping I haven’t upset her somehow. But I can’t think of what I might have done. All I did was send her some campy balloons.

“You asked me yesterday if I’d prodded Henry Kassman about your setup in Brooklyn.” She sits down heavily.

“Yeah?” I say lightly. “But I got a fruit basket out of it.” I point at the desk near the window, where an orange and a gourmet granola bar are the only things I haven’t already chowed.

“Well, I’m guilty. It was me who wrote him several lengthy texts about how you were struggling. Just because you’re a veteran and a solid guy, doesn’t mean you didn’t need a lot more attention. I criticized the hotel location. I asked Kassman if he was paying attention.” Her voice cracks.

“Okay, Bess. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yes, it is! He’s my mentor,” she says shakily. “I’ve never criticized him before. Not once. At least, I don’t think I have.”

“Is he angry?” I ask gently. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

“I stuck my foot in where I shouldn’t have. He’s dying, Tank.” She whirls on me. “Did you know?”

“Oh. Fuck.” My heart sinks. Poor Henry. “No, he hasn’t told me a thing. But I wondered if something was up.” Bess was right—it’s not like Kassman to stay away. I’ve been in New York for a month already, and I haven’t seen his face. “What’s wrong with him? Is it cancer?”

She shakes her head violently. “Heart failure,” she snarls. “That’s it. Apparently your heart can just stop working for no reason at all.”

“Oh, God.” My mind whirls. “Could he maybe get a—”

“Transplant? No. I asked. He’s not a good candidate for some reason.” Her fists are clenched, and her brow is creased with anger. As if she plans to grab heart failure by both hands and knee it in the nuts.

“Bess,” I whisper. “Take a breath.”

“Why?” she shrieks. “I told a dying man that he was taking poor care of his client. I should have asked him if he was okay. I just expected him to live forever! And the worst part is that I am still thinking about myself! Who am I going to call when I’m confused about something in a contract?”

“I’ll bet that doesn’t happen often,” I say soothingly.

“No. I haven’t needed his help in five years,” she grits out. “Still. Who am I going to meet for coffee when the gossip gets really good? Do you know what that man said to me just now?”

I shake my head, just letting her get it all out.

“He wants you to jump ship.”

“Sorry?”

“He suggested I take over your account, which is a stupid idea. I’m a busybody. I’m an awful human. He probably thinks I was trying to poach you all along.”