Page 27 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

“Excuse me? What did you just say?”

I can only gape at Max because I swear he just asked me to be his wife, and what the hell?

I’m still physically attached to him, my hands captured snugly within his palms. I give them a tug, but he only tightens his hold.

“Don’t give me your excuse me, all prissy like that,” he teases, because apparently, I’m the only one taking this seriously.

Sexy-as-sin creases appear at the edges of his eyes, along with his panty-melting grin and that dimple that makes me stupid, and the hell are you thinking, Palmer Sloan, now is not the time!

I give my head a back to reality shake, and when I jerk my hands from his hold this time, he releases them. He does not let go of his amused smirk.

I’m still waiting for the joke.

“You want me to marry you? Max, I barely know you. You don’t love me. Hell, until a week ago, you could barely tolerate me.”

One of his eyebrows wings upward. “That’s a little harsh?—”

I let out a growl of frustration, sounding a lot like Dylan when he’s grounded from video games. Why did I even mention love? It’s clearly not on the table—at all.

“But is it false?”

He lowers his lashes, then raises them after a heartbeat, the slow blink radiating his concession.

“There may be some truth in there,” he allows. “But what?—”

“Why a marriage proposal?” I interrupt, because God knows, his proposition came from left field. And, oh hell, now I’m making baseball analogies.

“Think about it. If we do this, it’ll protect you from your connection with Lopez. Both of them. Didn’t you say a marriage is the one thing that will get him off your back?”

“Oh,” I say on an enlightened breath. He makes a good point.

Before I can admit to that, he plows ahead.

“Look, if it makes it easier for you, what about a fake marriage? Like, in name only, or whatever the fuck you call it. You and Dylan can move into my home if you like; there’s plenty of room. I live my life, you live yours?—”

If I was under the misconception that he’s proposing a true union, he quickly dispels me of the notion.

It should give me a sense of relief. It could be the answer to my predicament.

At least, the problem I’m having with Alejandro.

Which, granted, is huge , his meddling interference in every decision and action I take as a mother.

But what if it only causes a whole new dilemma—like, how am I supposed to live with Max Fucking Murphy and keep my hands off him?

And what does Max expect from me with this agreement? Bargains have to serve all the people involved, right? I know what I’d get out of it, but what kind of motive does he have for making this offer? What’s in it for him?

“Yes, Max, I read romance novels. I am familiar with the idea of a fake relationship. But I’m wondering, why? And I have to tell you, there’s a whole parade of question marks following that one little word.”

“Why, what?” His forehead wrinkles and the divot between his eyebrows deepens, as if he’s genuinely perplexed.

“Are you deliberately being obtuse? Why are you making this offer, of course.” I spread my arms wide.

How can he not understand what I’m saying?

“I mean, I can see the advantage for me—it’ll keep Alejandro from breathing down my neck about moving back to California, and with luck, get him out of my life for good.

But you—what do you hope to gain from an .

. . alliance . . . with me?” And then I amend with, “Fake alliance.”

He leans forward in that position that seems so natural to him—sitting with his legs splayed, elbows braced against his thighs, hands dangling between his knees.

“I can see how this might be . . . unconventional. But look, I can really use some help with Nat until Adele’s up and around again, and since you two seem to have hit it off?—”

“She’s such a sweet girl,” I interject, and then clamp my mouth shut because he was giving me the clarity I need before I interrupted him.

His expression softens. “She is, but she’s a teenage girl who doesn’t have a mom. No lie, these years have been . . . a challenge.”

“You don’t have the right hormones.”

He gives me a quick side-eye, then moves his gaze to the spot on the floor between his feet. “Among other things.”

“You’re doing a great job with her, you know.”

“And you know this how? You’ve only known me those same few weeks I’ve known you.”

Something in his defeated-slash-curious-slash-hopeful tone prompts me to put my hand on his knee, offer him comfort.

I reach out to do just that, but then pull my hand back before it makes contact, because nope, our body parts have touched enough for today.

I can offer him words, and that’ll have to be enough.

“She’s been in my class all year, remember? I know what she’d be like if you weren’t doing a great job, and that’s not her.” The slow breath he exhales seems laced with relief, and before my emotions derail us, I steer us back to the original topic.

“Max, I’ve been driving her around where she needs to be and such, and I don’t mind helping. Adele won’t be down forever, and you sure don’t have to marry me to get me to help with a few errands.”

“Don’t forget, the gala’s just around the corner. And Jesus, the to-do list for that is never ending. It would be a lot easier for everyone if you were on hand to help the event planner. You know, answer questions, verify the layout of everything.”

His gaze is earnest, but me, I’m gawking at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re just making this up as you go along.

I don’t know what kind of alternate reality you’re coming from right now, but let’s get serious.

Wouldn’t a wife—even a fake one—restrict your love life?

” At his scoff, I change tack. “Okay, so what about your dating life? Because even if you don’t want a relationship or someone to love, nobody’s screwing around on me ever again without getting their balls handed to them in a cup. ”

“I don’t fuck around, not even when we’re on the road. Well, rarely.”

Seriously?

“Seriously?” I say out loud, because what? If that’s ever announced, women around the world will be crying themselves to sleep.

“I don’t want Natalie to ever have to deal with tabloid articles like the one we just saw.”

And oh fuck , the whole concept of a fake marriage has my brain so addled I haven’t even considered how it might affect our children. Yep, my admission into the Worst Mom Ever Club has a gold seal of approval and my membership card is in the mail.

“So, let’s say we go ahead with this marriage—and it’s a really big if —and I move into your house”—Max perks up, looking intrigued that I’m even considering his idea—“We each have a teenager to explain this to. I don’t know if I can sell Dylan on the plan and uproot him from his home.”

It’s a lie. When he hears I’m contemplating the pros and cons of a phony wedding to his baseball idol, he’ll have us packed and loaded into a U-Haul faster than an ump can call a balk.

But I’m used to handling my own life and taking care of my own problems and my own responsibilities.

I didn’t choose this life—it’s not the norm to choose to be a single mom to a teenage son—but it’s what was dealt to me when the man I loved and trusted let me down.

Let us down. Until Alejandro started putting the pressure on me because of Alex getting transferred closer to his former home, everything was going fine.

I am making everything work for us, and I don’t want to stop now.

I can handle my life, and my problems, in my own way.

And if Dylan is mad at me for not letting his grandfather buy him a truck at his sixteenth birthday, it’ll be so much worse to tell him he could have had a sports legend for a stepdad.