Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(44)

“He wants, uh…” Eric looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “He’s asked me to represent him. Eventually. When Henry is no longer able.”

“Really.” I glare at Tank, because this is a conversation we ought to be having in private. At least he has the good sense to look sheepish. “Can I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Tankiewicz?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Outside,” I snap. I hand my wine glass to Eric and leave the bar. Anger makes me feel less tipsy. I have no trouble marching outside where I round the corner of the building to find a small vacant lot. I wait. Fuming.

Tank follows me, because he’s not a stupid man.

Immediately, I light into him. “What the hell, Tank? Are you trying to do an end-run around me? That’s some heavy-handed bullshit right there. I’m not twenty-one anymore. You can’t manipulate me with a few kisses.”

“Manipulate you?” he roars. “That’s the pot calling out the kettle. You’re the one who agreed to represent me just so you didn’t have to make any tough choices about this thing we have.” He waves a hand in the air between us.

“This thing?” I snort.

“Maybe you don’t like my terminology.” He puts one of his delicious arms up on the brick wall and looks me up and down, a possessive glint in his eye. And goddamn it why does that light me up? “But you sure as hell like me.”

And then, just to prove the point, the asshole kisses me. It’s a hot, angry kiss that curls my toes.

“Even if you’re not willing to say so,” he says at close range. “Even if it’s unexpected.” He kisses me again. “And even if it fucks up your five-year plan.”

“Do not roll your eyes at my five-year plan.” I put a hand on his chest and push. They don’t call him the Tank for nothing. He doesn’t budge.

“Yeah, guess what? Life grabbed my five-year plan, ripped it right down the center, threw both halves in my face. Then I went to a party in Brooklyn and found you. And you could barely string two sentences together because you were too busy remembering how amazing it is when we’re alone together.”

The next kiss doesn’t even surprise me. He takes my mouth with arrogance and confidence and proves his point so well that I feel short on oxygen.

“You make me feel alive. You always did. You’re the best thing about Brooklyn, Bess. The only thing I care about here. And I’ll be damned if I let a little thing like agency representation stand in the way.”

“But—” I pant. My brain is foggy. “You’re—” I bite off my words, because I’m not ready to tell him the whole truth. You’re so dangerous to me. Dangerous not just to my job, but to my stupid heart.

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I’m not that good at explaining it, either. But what we have is rare. The timing sucks. It’s inconvenient. But I won’t let you pretend like it’s nothing. If you really can’t stomach the idea of seeing me, at least have the guts to tell me to my face. Is it because you think I’m a cheater? You believe the gossip?”

“No.” I give my head a firm shake. “Not that you ever set anyone straight on the gossip front.”

“The world is not entitled to an accounting of my pain. And you don’t owe the world an explanation, either. Are you ducking us because of your job? You think credibility is going to be a big problem?”

“Yes.” Among other things.

“Well, how’s that working for you?” He kisses me again. And the answer is obvious when I grip his shirt so that he won’t stop. “Yeah, I thought so. That’s why we need Eric as a buffer. Admit it. It’s a great idea.”

I growl instead. “You could have discussed it with me first.”

“True.” He shrugs. “But I wanted to run it past him first, in case he hates me, too.”

“He wouldn’t,” I admit. Grudgingly.

“Well, good. Because I need you in my life. I want the whole Bess package, okay? You’re the best in the business. So that means Eric will be, too. And I can’t stay away from you. I don’t even want to try. Maybe you’re embarrassed to be seen with a bitter, rebounding hockey player with anger issues and a shitty reputation. You probably deserve better. But I’m a greedy asshole. And I meant it when I said you’re the best thing to happen to me in a long time.”

Oh dear. That little speech makes my inner Cinderella dust off her rags and preen. She really likes the sound of that.

And just as I’m trying to shove her back into the cupboard, a certain hot, ripped, irritating hockey player kisses me again. He steps into my space and pushes me up against the brick wall. All my senses are assaulted by the firm press of his body against mine, and by the taste of rich red wine and hungry man. He weaves his fingers into my hair and tilts my head to seal the deal.

Damn him. It’s the best kind of kiss—breath-stealing and frustrating in a hundred wonderful ways. I can’t stay away from you, he’d said. I don’t even want to try.

We have that in common, then. Because I’m clinging to his shirt now and kissing him back.

Until someone clears his throat. Loudly.

We try to break apart, but it takes a moment, because neither of us is ready. Tank’s kisses have melted my brain. And it’s not like I really want to step back and squint at Eric, who is standing on the sidewalk looking amused.