Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(59)

“It couldn’t matter less.” I put down the package of tortillas I was unwrapping and pull her close. “I don’t care if you can’t even boil water.”

She kisses me on the jaw. “That’s nice of you to say, because it’s a little embarrassing. I notice you brought your own pan. Smart man.”

“Haters gonna hate, Bess. Fuck ’em.”

“Did you just become the only thirty-two-year-old man to quote Taylor Swift?” She lifts her pretty face and studies me.

“Maybe I did. The girl has a point with that song. Now get back to work, or dinner will never be finished.”

After assembling my ingredients, I roll shredded chicken, cheese, and beans into a dozen tortillas. I place them in a tidy row in the baking pan. Then I drizzle two whole packages of enchilada sauce everywhere, followed by loads of yellow cheese and some diced chilis. I cover the pan and slide it into the oven.

When I look up, Bess is watching me with a soft expression on her face. “What?” I ask. “Did I do something funny?”

“Not in the least.” Her eyes flick away. “When I told you I can’t cook, I meant I really can’t cook. I can’t even scramble an egg. It’s pathetic.”

“No it isn’t,” I say quietly, leaning over to kiss her jaw. “I like you just the way you are. Scars and all.”

Bess swallows hard. Her eyes hold mine, like she’s trying to figure something out. “Wow.”

“Wow, what?”

“I’m just…happy to see you. And I really like the sight of you in my kitchen, making dinner like it’s no big deal. I know I’m not supposed to bring it up, but your ex-wife must be stark-raving mad. That’s all I have to say about that.”

Something inside my chest loosens. “Do you know what we’re supposed to do now?” I ask, stepping closer.

She shakes her head, and her big blue eyes look up into mine.

“Right after I set the timer, we’ll have forty minutes to kill,” I whisper. “So I’m going to need to kiss you, nice and slow. And then take you to bed and show you how much I missed you.”

Bess shivers. “What are you waiting for, then?”

“Not a damn thing.” I thread my fingers into her hair and kiss her.





Bess eats three enchiladas, which is almost as many as I do. She’s finishing up her beer when I ask if she wants to watch a movie.

“Maybe,” she hedges. “But there’s something I need to ask you first. It’s uncomfortable for me, though.”

“Okay?” I take a gulp of beer. “Ask me. Anything.”

She sets her bottle on the coffee table. “This thing that we have is perfect. I don’t need to change anything right now. I’ll never tell you that your schedule is a drag, because mine is a drag, too. I’m just really happy to see you when you’re in Brooklyn.”

“Same to you, lady.” But I’m a little lost. “And we already discussed our parameters, right? You’re all the woman I need. You should have seen me counting the minutes until I could climb the stairs and peel you out of my rival’s T-shirt.”

She gives me a happy smile. “I may have worn that just to taunt you a little.”

“I noticed.”

“This is a good color on a redhead, though.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She smiles again, but then it fades as she takes a deep breath. “When I moved to Brooklyn, it was because I wanted to think about my future. My personal life, not my business. I hired Eric so that I could eventually spend more time on me and less time on the road. That won’t happen for a while, though. It’s a long-term plan.”

“Yeah. Sounds like a great goal.”

“And then there’s you, and you weren’t part of my plan. But I care about you and I am willing to make space in my plan for you. So much space.” She gives me a nervous smile, and I really don’t know where this is going. “You just got out of a marriage, and the timing of my question sucks. But someday I’ll need to know if you could trust someone again and share your life. And, if so, am I the kind of girl you could love?”

“Bess—” Hell, does she really not think she’s lovable?

She silences me by raising her hand. “You don’t need to answer. In fact, it’s too soon. But this is the question of my heart. I’m falling pretty hard, here. So if you just see me as a good time, I need to know that. I’m thirty, Tank. Eventually, I’ll run out of time.”

“Out of time,” I echo as my heart drops hard and fast. Now I understand where this conversation is headed. “You want to have kids.” The last word practically gets stuck in my throat.

“Eventually,” she repeats. “I have a few years, though. Five, probably.”

“Five,” I repeat stupidly.

The problem is that I already know how this works. And five years isn’t enough. That’s sixty months of potential disappointment, followed by tears, and distance, and regret.

For some guys, no amount of time is enough.

Suddenly, the living room is too damn small. I grab my plate off the coffee table and stand up quickly. I carry it into the kitchen and rinse it off. I know I shouldn’t have left the room. But a familiar chill is wrapping itself around my heart.