Page 23 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

As it turns out, Dugout Pizza is a hangout for local Terrors fans. You’d think we could deduce that from the name alone, but since their location is miles from the stadium, it seems more likely it’s a kitschy name based on their baseball décor than home of an actual fandom.

We are wrong.

It’s long past the dinner hour by the time we arrive and take a booth in the rear; in fact, we arrive with so little time before closing that the server is on us immediately.

What do we want to drink? Do we know what we’re eating tonight?

We don’t, but we learn just how fast we can come to a consensus. Our pie arrives in record time.

There are several patrons in attendance, all wearing Terrors jerseys, still grumbling over tonight’s loss—and shooting us irritated glances.

Palmer and Dylan sit across from my daughter and me, their backs to the petulant fans as we wolf down our thick-crust pie. I can generally defuse this type of situation with a selfie and a signature, but tonight, they’ve been stewing in their drafts for a while and they’re loud.

I am not in the mood.

Tonight, I don’t want to enable a group of entitled pricks because their hometown team wasn’t the victor. I want to enjoy my cheat meal with my daughter and the little family that’s coming to feel like more to me.

I keep my head down while we eat rather than acknowledging their attitudes, and keep our conversation pleasant while Natalie talks about the summer vacation she has planned with Adele, and discourage any recap of tonight’s play at our table.

We all know what happened. Same way we all know there are more than a hundred games left in the season, and some of those will be losses, too.

With a chorus of muttered curses and warning glares, the final trio of men drain the last of their beers and leave the restaurant. The LED closed sign has been lit for several minutes and now we’re getting impatient stares from the staff.

Finished, we gather our belongings and offer friendly smiles as we exit through the tense atmosphere.

I drop a sizeable tip in the jar on my way out, and add a polite apology for keeping them—because one of the teenage employees had their camera out, and if they were filming, I need to control the narrative as much as possible.

“Well, that was just weird,” Natalie says as we walk down the sidewalk toward our cars. She isn’t usually exposed to the darker side of fan backlash, and tonight was a blatant reminder why.

“Those guys were real asshats,” Dylan says, and yeah, they were. But this kid, while his mechanics are on track to take him where he wants to go, still has a lot to learn about the contrary dynamics between pro ballplayers and the people who worship them.

“I’m sorry, guys. Maybe we should have called for delivery and gone straight home.”

Palmer steps close to me. “Don’t tell me you have to deal with that crap all the time.”

I look down at her and wink. It’s kind of our thing now. “Nah, sometimes we win.”

She huffs out a laugh, which of course, is my intention. She has so much else to worry about, my drama is not her concern.

We arrive at our vehicles, parked side-by-side in the deserted lot, a single light pole illuminating the area. Natalie opens her door to the Escalade, but pauses with one foot on the running board.

“Hey, tomorrow’s Memorial Day, right? Let’s have a barbeque and hang out by the pool.”

Dylan nods his agreement. “Cool.”

Why not? The weather’s been warm and sunny since last week’s storm, and I don’t have a game. “I like that idea, bug. We can celebrate the start of your summer break.”

Palmer raises her hand. “But?—”

“You’re coming,” interrupts Natalie, and I’m impressed at how she shut down any of Palmer’s objections. “You don’t have work tomorrow, do you?” she asks me, but I’m already imagining slicking Palmer up with sunscreen.

“Nope. A day at the pool sounds nice.”

Dylan’s phone chimes and his brows pull together when he gives it his attention. Palmer zeroes in on him while he moves toward their car and gets in, his concentration centered on his screen.

I reach for her hand to pull her close. She evades my grasp with a quick look between Nat and Dylan, but nuh-uh .

We’re not hiding. I’m in deeper and deeper with this woman every day, which means Natalie needs to know.

I’m not sure how Palmer feels about sharing whatever we call our status with her son, but I’m here to help if she wants it.

I move as close to her as I dare, and murmur for her ears only, “I want to see you in a bikini.”

She tips her head back and gives me her look —the one I love that’s somewhere between humor and exasperation.

“Sorry, Mighty Max, all my suits are granny-style.”

Natalie’s still standing in the open doorway to our SUV and yells out, “Hey, Palmer, the mall opens at ten tomorrow. Let’s run over and find something new.”

And fuck me, because our exchange was meant to be private.

Natalie slams the car door and comes closer. “I outgrew my favorite suit from last year, and if I try to wear it, my dad may have a stroke.”

I laugh out loud. “And just when I was about to put the kibosh on another shopping trip, you go and find an altruistic and thoughtful reason why I can’t turn you down.” I reach out to put her in a headlock, but she’s quick and darts away.

“Plus, you’re a marshmallow,” Palmer murmurs before she turns to Nat in her normal tone.

“I suppose I could use a new suit that’s not faded and stretched out.

Be ready early, okay? I’ll pick you up from your house at nine forty-five.

But I am not buying a bikini!” She wags her finger to emphasize her point.

With a quick smile, she leaves us, walking toward her driver’s side door and sliding in beside Dylan, and I actually feel the ache of not kissing her goodbye. I’m going to need another of those cold showers if I want to sleep tonight.

She bought a fucking bikini.

It’s some kind of orange and turquoise tropical print, low in the front, high on the sides, nothing but skinny ties holding everything together, and so much exposed skin. The water is not cold enough.

I’ve spent the past hour playing with Dylan and Nat in the pool, enjoying the sun’s warm rays while competing in a game of HORSE with the basketball hoop attached to the pool edge, and then a whiffle ball throwing competition, and doing our best to annoy Palmer into joining us.

But she’s happily lounging on a foam pool float with a canned adult beverage in the built-in cup holder.

Her full breasts bob in the waves we’re creating. I need a distraction.

“Adele, you doing okay?” I call over to the woman sitting in the shade of the patio with her foot propped on an ottoman, her e-reader in her hand, a tall glass of iced tea on a nearby table.

She waves her reader my way to show me the book cover. “All set over here. I don’t need anything except for this sexy book boyfriend to come to life and sweep me away.”

I chuff out a laugh because Adele and her romance novels . They’re her obsession.

“Ooh, I loved that one!” Palmer yells out to her. “Gutting. Have you gotten to chapter twenty-three yet?”

Adele wriggles her eyebrows and pokes at the reader. “Not yet. I’m on my way now, though.”

Palmer takes a sip from her can. “My work here is done.”

Somebody’s phone chimes with a notification and Dylan stops splashing around and pushes himself onto the deck. When he’s standing at the edge of the pool in his sodden board shorts, he shakes like a dog, and then reaches for a towel before going over to check his phone.

Nat is next to desert me, claiming she needs out of the sun before she gets burned.

Her long hair’s fallen out of its topknot with her swimming, and she raises her arms to tie it up as she ascends the steps from the water to the pool deck.

She’s gonna fucking kill me, strutting around like that.

My gaze darts to where Dylan is typing feverishly on his phone and not paying attention to my daughter, at all. As it should be.

But know what this means? Yep, it’s me and Palmer now, all alone in the pool. I sidestroke to her in the deep end and latch on to the edge of her thick float.

“Next time my daughter wants to buy a bikini, remind her that I will cut up her credit card.”

Palmer and I both crane our necks to watch my daughter stretch out on a lounger. Which, I should point out to her, is not in the shade.

“You don’t think she looks cute in it?” Palmer asks.

I scowl. “She was cute when she was five and wore pigtails.”

“Well, I think she looks good.”

I reach up and tug one of the string ties hanging from the back of her neck and lying loose across her shoulder. “I think you look good. Let me feast on the sight of you.”

She immediately crosses both arms across the exposed skin of her stomach.

“It’s been years since I wore a two piece. Your daughter nagged me into it.”

“I’ll have to thank her. But you know I can never let you take her shopping again, now that I know what a pushover you are.

” I shake my head in mock reproach. “And you called me a marshmallow.” I sink under the surface of the water just low enough that my mouth is submerged, suck in a mouthful, and blow a stream across the length of her body. Her abdomen immediately concaves.

“Aahh! That’s cold!” She flails about, swiping off the moisture, kicking me away, and nearly losing her sunglasses.

“It’s refreshing. And if you don’t want to get wet, why get in the pool?”

“I’m trying to get a suntan, not drowned.”

“Honey, I’d need my arms around a whole lot more of you if I were to drown you.” I kick my feet and move back to her side, then lower my voice. “But having my arms around you doesn’t sound like a bad way to go.”

She peers at me through the shades covering her eyes. “That tongue of yours is going to get you in real trouble one day.”

“Palmer, this tongue of mine is going to get you in real trouble one day soon, and you’re going to love every minute of it.”

“For God’s sake, Max. Here? With an audience? You are cruel.” She presses her thighs together and squirms.

I press down where my thighs join, too, deflating my semi.

Then flip onto my back and glide, one hand stretched out to tether me to her float as I circle around her, squinting from the bright sun in my eyes.

I release my grip on the foam mat and let my fingers slide up the damp skin of her calf and then thigh, and then the curve of her hip.

Another flutter kick and my fingertips are in range to inch under the top edge of her suit bottoms, and I shift to read her expression.

She hasn’t kicked me away yet, but how much further do I dare, especially since we’re not really alone?

Her eyes are trained on me, and her breathing is shallow.

I give her a teasing smile and skirt a finger over the skin just above the elastic band. Again, she sucks in her stomach.

“You’re really wicked, aren’t you, bad boy,” she says in a breathy voice.

I let my fingertips skim up further as I float at her side, coming close to a scrap of fabric containing her overflowing breast.

“But I’m what you want, aren’t I, Palmer Girl?”