Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(54)

But I hope we do. Missing Bess on the road is a familiar feeling. Back when I was twenty-three and watching my teammates hook up, I’d been so lonely for her.

I never told her, though. I still haven’t.

Castro leaves, and I stay there for a while, sitting on the fancy spa bench. It’s dawning on me that Bess must not have wanted me to know about her childhood. It’s the only explanation for why she’s never said a word about it.

And I don’t know what to do with this realization. Was it pride that kept her from telling me? Or did she think I wouldn’t care? The truth is that I’ve never given her the chance to confide in me. We were so young the first time we met. I remember wanting to impress her. I was trying to impress the whole world.

It worked, I guess. We impressed the hell out of each other on a regular basis. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’ve figured out that impressing people only goes so far. Now I need more.

I’ve seen that scar on Bess’s arm so many times. Yet I never asked how she got it. Maybe I didn’t want to ruin the fun. But now we’re past that, aren’t we? Bess means a lot to me. If she’ll talk to me about her past, I’m ready to listen.

I told Bess that being together didn’t have to be a “life-changing thing.” But somehow it already is.

Can a jaded divorcé fall in love again? Maybe this one already did.





Twenty-Three





That’s Not an Ax





Bess





“And then Cinderella accidentally turned into a mouse. The end.”

My niece looks up at me with her little pink mouth open in surprise. “No, Aunt Best! Read it for real.”

“I did, you stinker.” I close the book. “Three times. We’re both going to get in big trouble if you don’t go to bed soon. Your daddy is going to give us both a spanking.”

“No. Daddy not do that.” Nicole grins at me, showing off a perfect set of tiny teeth.

“Of course not,” I whisper. Spankings are just a fiction to Nicole. “But it’s still bedtime.” Not that I’m much of a disciplinarian, either. My niece is wearing pink, striped pajamas that make her short legs look like sausages. She’s so cute and cuddly that I would honestly sit in this rocking chair all night and hold her. And this adorable little scamp is dragging out her bedtime to epic proportions because she knows I’m a huge softie.

But Zara is making dinner downstairs. So I rise from the rocking chair, hugging Nicole tightly. She wraps her arms around me, too. It will be a struggle to let go of her. “Sleep with the angels, baby.”

“Night, Best.”

And now I have actual tears in my eyes. I hope she never stops calling me that. I’m so smitten it’s ridiculous. I have to force myself to set her down in the crib. One of the sides is removed, because at two and a half, my baby is not so much of a baby anymore.

I cover her with the blanket and ruffle the coppery curls near her face. “Night, angel. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I climb on your bed?”

“Of course.” And lord help me, that will probably happen at six thirty. But that’s why I’m here. I moved eight hundred miles just to be more available for six thirty wakeups with this child, in this house. I give her one more kiss on her satin cheek, and then make myself leave the room.

Slowly I descend the stairs, taking a moment to put on my game face. I’ve decided that I need to tell my brother about Tank, because I don’t want him to hear it as gossip.

Honestly, it’s not a big deal. Dave is vaguely aware that there are occasionally men in my life. And I’m thirty freaking years old. Although he does have a classic “nobody is good enough for my baby sister” complex. So that’ll be fun.

I dread talking about Tank, though. Because Dave will ask me if it’s serious, and I’ll have to say no. And if he asks me whether I want something serious with Tank, I don’t know what I’ll say. Because I do want more. But you can’t always have the things you want.

In the kitchen, I find Zara but not Dave. She’s adding cream to a pan full of crumbled…

“Is that sausage?” I ask. “It smells good.”

“Sure is. We buy it from a farmer in Tuxbury.”

“And what do you use it for?”

“This is going over pasta, with some garlic, peas, and chives in a white sauce.”

My stomach rumbles. “Can I help with dinner?”

Zara gives me a smile. “Probably not. No offense.” My lack of cooking skills is widely known. “How about you pour a couple mugs of that hot cider and take one out to the lumberjack outside?”

“Sure. But you could put me to work setting the table or something.”

“It’s handled, Bess. You did the hard work of putting that kid to bed. Have some cider and make sure Dave doesn’t remove any important body parts while he’s splitting wood.”

“Okay. I won’t spike his, then.”

“Good idea.” She picks up a ramekin full of chopped herbs and adds them to the pan with the sausage. Her cooking smells wonderful, and I’ll bet it’s something I could learn to do if I just put in the time.

The other morning when Tank asked me why I don’t cook, I flat out lied. It’s not that I don’t have any interest. It’s just that putting food on the table was always a fraught issue when I was young. There was never enough of it. My father couldn’t be bothered. And then my grandmother complained about how much we ate.