Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(86)

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“And I just wanted to say I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for everything. At the end, I told myself it was your fault that we couldn’t work through it. But it was never just your fault. And I’m sorry I made you feel like it was.”

I watch his back rise as he takes a deep breath. “Thank you. That’s nice of you. I probably could have handled it better, too.”

“We both could, maybe. But I said some things I regret. That’s all. I’ll let you get back to your teammates and your—” Her eyes dart over to where I sit.

“Fiancée,” he says slowly.

Jordanna gasps so audibly they probably heard it in San Jose. “Oh. Wow.” She looks at me again, and this time it’s not me who looks away. It’s her. “She’s not—” She swallows hard. Pregnant. She doesn’t say the word, but I hear it anyway.

“No, Danna,” he says with a shake of his head. “No.”

“Oh.” She takes a deep breath, and some of the color returns to her face. “God, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

I can hear Tank’s chuckle. “No, it isn’t. But, look, you need to get to a place where you can say that word without almost passing out, okay? Trust me, it’s the only way to move forward with your life.”

She brings both hands up to her mouth. “Okay. You’re right. I know. I lost my mind there for a second.”

“I understand why. I really do. But I hope you can find a way to make some peace with the way things turned out. You deserve that as much as I do.” He reaches out and gives her a quick, hard hug.

It’s so generous that I don’t even feel a stab of jealousy. Not a big one, anyway.

“Be well, Jordanna. Now I have to get back.”

“Goodbye, Mark. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

She walks away, as my poor little conflicted heart thumps inside my chest. I wonder how much it cost her to do that.

Tank comes over and sits wordlessly down beside me, his suitcase at his feet.

“Well,” I say. “That was…” I don’t even know what word to choose. Awkward? Sad?

“Ill-timed?” He laughs.

“Is this weird for you?”

“Getting emotionally mugged by my ex-wife? A little.”

“No, I mean doing it all for a second time. Buying a ring. Kneeling down and asking me to marry you. Do you have déjà vu?

He smiles, and tucks an arm around me. “No, honey. Not at all. It’s like, if we’d lost to Dallas last night…”

“Which you didn’t,” I put in gleefully.

“But if we did. I’d be sweaty and tired and demoralized. And the next forty-eight hours would have sucked, right? But eventually I’d want a rematch. I’d be ready. I’d be hungry for it.”

“So you’re going to kick marriage’s ass and make it cry? You’re going to win?”

“I already have, honey. This is what winning looks like.”

He cups my chin and kisses me.





Thirty-Five





Glass Slippers and Everything





Bess





It’s totally possible to plan a wedding in three weeks. And, honestly, I’d recommend a hasty wedding to anyone. You don’t have to fret over all the decisions, because there simply isn’t time.

“Take the first venue that’s open on your date,” my brother had suggested as soon as he got over his shock at my news. “Don’t look at the price, I’ll pay it.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to have my brother contribute to my wedding. But when I realized that the impulse was some kind of macho reaction, I let him get out his checkbook.

Besides, the man has a daughter, and he ought to know what he’s getting into in case he decides to have more.

The rest of my wedding planning happened at top speed, too. I selected the first invitations the printer showed me. Then I gave the florist and the cake baker free rein to exercise their crafts.

“This wedding will be small,” I told them. “It will be held in a Victorian-era mansion, and it’s two weeks from today. You do your thing, and I’ll love it, I promise.”

When it came to dress-shopping, though, I needed guidance. Becca swooped in to help me choose the gown in a single afternoon of shopping.

“It doesn’t have to be a bridal gown,” I’d said. “My only rule is that it can’t be strapless, or I’ll spend the whole night worried that it will plummet to my ankles as I accidentally flash the guests.”

“Noted,” Becca had said. Then she’d promptly found a long, white, velvet burnout dress in my size on the rack at Bloomingdales that made her squeal with delight.

I might have squealed, too, just a little, over its boho vibe, empire waist, and un-fussy V-neck. The burnout pattern reminded me of antique wallpaper. In a good way.

Even as the dress was being wrapped, Becca had demanded that we go shoe shopping next. “They have to be fabulous.”

“I can’t learn to walk in heels in the next fourteen days, Bec,” I’d told her. “They can’t be that fabulous.”