Page 18 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

Dylan sprints down the hall from his room the next Sunday morning while I’m still parked at the counter with my phone and a mug of coffee, infusing my body with that first dose of caffeine while scrolling old texts.

It’s been a full week since my tense, then playful, phone chat with Max—the same night he invited Dylan over for a private coaching session—and we haven’t wasted a day.

I pause when I reach our earliest messages.

The first one came less than ten hours after our call, and I open a selfie of Max’s face as he’s lying bare-chested in bed, his head resting on his tattooed forearm, his hair disheveled, pillow lines indenting his cheek, his eyelids still heavy with sleep.

Bad Boy: wish you were here

I wished I was, too, because damn .

Me: Jesus, bad boy. Next time warn a girl

Bad Boy: I warned you last night. Were you not paying attention?

I’m paying attention now.

And over and over again as the days passed and he sent me a flurry of random thoughts and photos of his view.

I sent him a pic of Natalie one morning, because he mentioned how much he missed her. Then, I sent him a shot of Mike, on my nightstand, beside a bottle of lube.

Bad Boy: We’ll be retiring his number soon

All right, then.

I messaged him later in the week, while preparing our early dinner.

Me: Game tonight? Thought I might watch you in action.

I had no plans so I thought I would tune in.

Bad Boy: Travel day. We’re almost home. And there are so many ways I want to see you in action.

I may have been surprised by my disappointment in not seeing him that night, but I was overwhelmed by the sudden fluttery anticipation building in my stomach.

Then, he sent a photo of the screen on the seat back in front of him, displaying the route between St. Louis and Nashville—at the time, I had to stretch the photo to see where they were headed—and I somehow felt more settled, more connected to him.

I wonder yet again if I should ask for a copy of his schedule.

My goal is to fill my brain with our messages and gain the reassurance I need to face him today.

Last week, I accidentally lashed out at him—my verbal abuse obviously not meant for him—but since our exchange, and him talking me down from a minor meltdown that same night, neither of us has exhumed the subject.

Today, I’ll see him in person for the first time since then, and the past week feels like an alternate reality.

“Hurry up, Mom. You stay glued to the phone like that, I’m gonna think you have some kind of boyfriend.”

I jerk my gaze up and meet his teasing expression, and my face must transmit my musings because he hoots with laughter.

“Oh, my God, you do!” he shouts, and he’s almost gleeful as he dances around and is generally annoying. “Who is it? Is it that new teacher from school, because, for a mom, you’re killing it. You can do better than that old guy.”

Do I? Do I have a hot new boyfriend? And killing it ? Really? But yeah, it kind of feels like I have a new boyfriend. Or what I remember of those fuzzy-headed, hummingbirds-in-the-belly sensations.

But then, I see the clock on the microwave. “Yikes! I lost track of time.” I hurry down the hall to finish getting dressed, calling over my shoulder for him to eat something.

The sun will be warm today, so I’m already wearing a floaty sundress. The next several minutes are spent contemplating foundation, and scrapping it for tinted moisturizer, abandoning eyeliner before swiping on mascara, then going back and forth between sandals and sneakers.

I also go through a cocktail of emotions ranging from mild unease to heavy dread. I’ve spent the past decade shielding Dylan from the disparaging things people say about his father. They’re probably all true, but Dylan wasn’t involved in his schemes, and I wasn’t either.

Is this outing a mistake? Max is a very public figure. Even if he wasn’t a victim of Alex’s scam, his wealthy teammates or associates may have been.

By the time we pass through the gate to Max’s house and park the car in the front drive, anxiety has swum to the surface and wants to start a pity party. It’s a hundred-and-eighty-degree difference from my lighthearted exuberance of only two days ago.

Me: Last day for the win! Dress code goes out the window when I’m counting down the minutes till summer break

I tacked on a gif of the song, “Final Countdown,” and added a selfie of me in my jeans shorts and white tank top. I may have added the bra after I took the photo.

Bad Boy: My high school teachers were never as hot as you

And then, he sent me googly eyes.

Will he have googly eyes today, with the kids hanging around? Do I want him to?

Dylan flings back his seat belt and reaches for the door handle to hop out, but I throw my arm over his chest to stop him.

“Dylan, remember we’re here as guests. Please. Be respectful. No cussing. Use your best manners. Don’t?—”

“Mom, I know the drill.”

He flies out of the car, snatches up his gear bag, and he’s up the steps to the front porch.

I follow at a slower pace, but all the while, he’s vibrating with impatience as we wait for someone to respond to our knock.

I flatten down the skirt of my dress, like that’s going to make it fall two inches longer.

What was I thinking when I decided to wear this?

Max answers the door wearing a black biceps-defining Terrors tee and athletic shorts that hit just shy of his kneecaps.

His legs are long and toned, and—I note in my quick once-over—covered in a masculine matting of dark hair.

If I remembered he looks this good, I wouldn’t have slept at all without help from my feminine relaxation aid .

He widens the door and steps back, presumably to invite us inside. It’s only a guess, though. Because the guy hasn’t yet uttered a word. His unwavering gaze has been locked on me since the moment he opened the door.

“Thanks for having me over, Max!” Dylan barges in like he owns the place, then comes to a sudden stop and his eyes go wide when he takes in the scope of affluence surrounding us. “Whoa!”

I need to get the kid out more.

Max finally moves his attention from me but ignores Dylan’s overly-excited exclamation.

“No problem, man.” Max taps the bill of Dylan’s cap. “Let’s see if we can’t level you up.”

Dylan’s turning a slow circle, taking it all in. “Yeah, cool. Hey, Nat.”

Natalie comes around the corner dressed in a school tee, bike shorts, and a ballcap turned backwards, and meets us in the entryway. Well, I imagine they call it their entryway. Me? I’d call it the downstairs ballroom.

“Hey, bug. Can you take Dylan out to the field? You guys get warmed up so you’re ready to work. I’ll show Ms. Sloan around a little and we’ll meet you out there in a few.”

“Sure, Daddy.” She pops up on her toes and kisses his cheek. “Dilly’s watching TV in her room.”

She leads Dylan off through the house, and a moment later, a door in the rear slams shut. I flinch. That boy’s breaking all the rules and we haven’t been here fifteen minutes.

“Adele’s still on crutches?” I ask, though without the buffer of the kids, I’m afraid to look at him.

I’ve been wondering all day how this will play out, and refusing to get my hopes up. That pointless angst-ridden scenario has been monopolizing my headspace all morning.

“Palmer.”

His voice is insistent, and when I turn back from where the kids dashed through the house, his expression is calm and relaxed, his gaze warm and resolute.

This man could be dangerous. And by dangerous, I mean so much fun .

He steps closer and takes my hand. Doesn’t hold it, just lays it flat on his, palm to palm as if memorizing the whole of my ringless fingers, my knuckles, the length of my nails, the Band-Aid covering the paper cut I got while paying the water bill.

I sputter out, “How are you not plagued with even one itty bitty insecurity?”

He grins and looks into my eyes. “Would that make you feel better?”

His palm is calloused, his fingers are long, and there’s a tuft of fine dark hair on the knuckle of each.

I scowl. I’m overthinking this. Of course, I am.

Am I, though?

He lightly presses his free hand to the small of my back, not leading me anywhere, simply touching me as if he can’t resist, and creating a distracting source of contact.

“Look, the way I see it, we’ve been through the hard part.

You were pissed, I was pissed. We worked through that”—he lifts a nonchalant shoulder and the corner of his lip quirks—“Mostly. Now you only think I’m an absent father rather than inattentive.

” I open my mouth to respond, but he barrels along with, “And maybe I think you’re only . . . protective.”

I arch a brow. “Instead of?”

The night I met him, in the bathroom hallway, he traced the back of my hand all the way to my nail with the tip of his finger.

It was sensuous and befuddling. I flip our hands over so his palm lays on mine and do that to him now.

The movement causes him to yank his hand back with something like . . . a snort laugh.

I giggle, eyes wide. “Mighty Max is ticklish ?”

“Maybe,” he grumbles, then puts his fingertips to his lips and mimes zipping them.

Maybe, my ass. And I grin, because I know a secret. His secret.

“It’s going to cost you, buddy. I still want to know my instead .”

He looks away, then blows out a lip-sputtering breath.

“Max!”

“Arrogant. Okay? You feel better now?”

I do, but, “Arrogant? Where the hell did that?—”

“Assumptions, all right? I didn’t know you yet, and I was . . .”

He thinks he’s going to leave the end of this sentence to dangle?

“Ooh, no. Don’t stop now,” I say on an amused chuckle.

He peers down at me for the longest time before a flash of humor glints in his eyes—right before he huffs out an amused breath and rolls those baby blues at me.

“Wrong. I made a bad assumption and I . . . Damn it, woman, I’m sorry.”

I stare, because . . . unexpected.