Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(83)

A bellman rolls Bess’s suitcase in, and he’s followed by a room service delivery person. The scent of Tex-Mex makes me—if possible—even a little happier than I was before. “Where do I sign?” I take the bill from the server and add a generous tip.

“I’m so happy to see my suitcase,” Bess says after they leave. “Can I change into something more comfortable?”

“Of course. Especially if that’s a euphemism.” I turn around and finish removing my suit, hanging up the trousers and the jacket so I can wear them again before our next game.

When I turn around, I almost swallow my tongue. Bess is standing there in a flame-colored lace bra, and matching lace panties. “Holy fuck. Are you trying to kill me?”

“If I am, then it’s a murder-suicide,” she says. “Lace itches. Who knew?”

“Come here,” I growl. “I need a closer inspection.”

She gives me an uncharacteristically shy smile. “You don’t think I look ridiculous? Like I borrowed a lingerie model’s underwear?”

“Never,” I assure her. “Bess, take it from an underwear model—you’ve got the goods.”

“You charmer.” She laughs and comes closer to me.

“If those need to be taken off, I want to be the one doing the taking.”

“Do you, now?” She kisses my neck.

“You’d better believe it.” I run my hands down her smooth skin, and then show her just how it’s done.





Thirty-Four





I Did Not Get Out of Bed





Bess





When I wake up the next morning, I’m face down on the silky hotel sheets, my naked limbs tangled in the covers. I feel completely at peace, even before I’m conscious enough to remember why.

Oh, right. Tank is beside me. His presence comforts me on a deep level. When I’d finally fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning, it was with the bedrock certainty that we were on the same page about the future.

Apparently he’s awake, too. I hear typing.

I turn my sleepy face toward him and open my eyes. And, whoa, I will never get over that view. The hottie in bed with me has two days’ worth of stubble and a broad, muscular chest that I want to lay my head upon. But doing that would require moving from this comfortable spot.

“Bess, honey,” he says, putting a big hand on my head. “How much reading about international adoption did you do last night?”

Together, we’d gone over the various options. And—at first glance—it had seemed like an international adoption might be our best path.

“Not much.” I yawn. “Why? Are you doing some research?”

“Yeah.” He flashes a smile at me. “I woke up early and started thinking about it. Then I couldn’t get back to sleep, because I love this idea so much.”

My heart soars just hearing him say that.

“But did you know that all these countries require a couple to be married for two years before adopting?” He gives me a serious frown.

“I saw that. But it’s okay.” I yawn again. “We aren’t racing the clock anymore. It’s not about fertility. We have time.”

He strokes my hair. “I love your attitude about this. And I love you. We’re going to do this, aren’t we?”

“We’re doing this,” I agree. “And maybe the delay turns out to be a blessing. We’ll have time for us, and then time for a child who needs us.”

Tank’s hand goes still on my hair. Then he closes my laptop with a snap. “I have to run out for a few minutes.”

“What for?”

“Egg sandwiches,” he says. “And coffee.”

“Mmm.” I sigh. “That sounds so nice. Do you know I love you?”

His voice is low and super serious when he answers. “I do know that, honey. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Isn’t there a team brunch you’re supposed to go to?”

“That’s later. I’ll be back, okay? Wait for me.”

Wait for me. He has no idea how good it feels to be asked. “Always.”

After he leaves, the room gets quiet again, and I drowse on the pillow. If we adopt a child, I’ll have to learn to cook. What kind of mother can’t make scrambled eggs for breakfast?

I’ll have a few years to sort that out. Unless we don’t try for an international adoption. If we go the foster-parent route, it could happen more quickly.

None of this will be easy. I’ll need to work with at least one adoption agency—and maybe more than one, if we pursue different avenues of adoption. And then, when we get closer to success, I’ll hire an office assistant to give Eric and I even more flexibility.

It will all go into the new five-year plan. Just as soon as I get out of this bed.

Spoiler: I do not get out of the bed. The sheets are soft and the pillow is fluffy and my man is roving the streets of Dallas, hunting down a deli that makes egg sandwiches.

He takes surprisingly long, and my stomach is growling by the time I hear the telltale beep and click of the room door opening.

“Do they not have delis in Dallas?” I ask, rolling over to look at him.