Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(37)

“I already ate.” Although it seems like a long time ago now. “Maybe just some guacamole and chips?”

“That’s my girl.” Tank strokes my back. “One more question?”

“Shoot.”

“Will you be my agent?”

“What?” I sit up suddenly. That was not the question I was expecting. “No. I can’t.”

“Bess,” he says softly, his hand cupping my hip. “It doesn’t have to be today. I mean eventually.”

“No way.” I give my head a vigorous shake. “Did you miss the fact that we’re naked right now?”

He lets out a guttural laugh. “I didn’t miss a second of it. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell,” I insist. “Credibility is everything. ‘Pay my client what he’s worth’ sounds a hell of a lot different than ‘Pay my lover.’ I mean, if we were married, that’s—”

Oh shit. I realize two things in a big rush. The first is that I shouldn’t have used the M word with Tank. I already know where he stands on that score. The second is that there’s a brutally simple solution to this problem.

“Actually,” I say, “I’m thinking about this all wrong. I will absolutely be your agent, if eventually that proves necessary.”

His handsome face breaks into a warm smile—the kind that makes me feel all gooey inside. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He runs a hand up my bare back. “I can count on one hand all the people in my life that I trust. And you’re on this very short list. Don’t make me confide in a stranger.”

“I won’t,” I say, rolling off the bed. “You’re right. We have a lot of history. When the time comes for you to find other representation, I’m happy to help. But I hope that day won’t come very soon.” I pick up my panties and hop into them. And then I grab my trousers.

“Wow, okay. Thank you for being flexible on this point. I thought I was going to have to win you over with some more hot loving.” He gives me an adorably heated glance as I hook my bra.

“That’s not necessary,” I say with a sigh. “There will be no more hot loving.”

“What? Of course there will.”

“No way,” I insist, putting on my blouse. “You were totally right—it makes more sense for me to be your agent than your hookup. From now on we’re going to stick to the plan.”

“Plan? What plan?” he sputters, running his hand through his sex-mussed hair.

“Smart decisions. Long-range goals. You need a place to live and a distraction-free life so you can concentrate on your game. I was never part of your Brooklyn plan, Tank. You know this.”

“Well, sure, but…” He squints up at me. “That doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you.”

That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? We’re way too happy to see each other. But which Bess am I going to be? The one with the five-year plan? Or the one who throws everything overboard every time this man smiles at me?

“Your future agent is a smart girl.” I’m rapidly buttoning my blouse now. “You said you trust me. That means you have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“But—” He frowns, as if trying to find a hole in my logic.

Unfortunately for both of us, there isn’t one. If there was, I would have found it already. My five-year plan—tucked securely into the briefcase that I’d dropped just inside his door a half hour ago—is quietly cheering me on.

“Eat some Tex-Mex. Rest up. Beat Tampa. You and I will talk soon.”

“How soon?” he asks, still deliciously naked. I can’t make eye contact with his abs, or I’ll lose my resolve. Lust is fun, but it isn’t everything. And this man is not in a place to love me.

“Soon,” I lie. “Soonish.” I give him a little wave, and then I make my exit.





Sixteen





That’s a Lot of Muscle





Bess





For the next forty-eight hours, the decision feels like a good one. In the first place, Tank and the rest of the Bruisers eke out a win against Tampa. So that’s progress.

And I manage to get some much-needed distance from him. When Tank texts me a photo of himself in front of a bar called The Tank, I don’t engage. I don’t call him or flirt, even though I want to.

It’s better to have a few heart pangs now than a bigger heartbreak later, right?

To put myself in the right mindset, I do some background research on Tank’s career. His contract negotiation is still over a year away, which means that I can leave him in Henry’s hands for a while longer.

When the time comes—and if Henry is out of the picture—I’ll get Tank a good deal. I know Brooklyn’s management team better than most. And I’ve already negotiated with them for an over-thirty player who’s a challenge to the salary cap.

Speaking of Henry, I also do some frightening research on late-stage heart failure. The prevalent symptoms—besides shortness of breath—are pain and swelling. The man needs distraction, so I wander through Books are Magic in Cobble Hill and choose some titles that I think he’ll appreciate. He likes thrillers and action. His books require at least one ugly plot twist and one major explosion. Bonus points if someone has to fly a helicopter without any training.