Page 3 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer Sloan

The last of my tequila buzz has unfortunately dissipated.

By the time I wash my hands and reapply lip gloss in the elegant bathroom mirror of the nicest hotel I’ve ever stepped foot in, the fuzziness in my head is gone.

It really is a shame; I could use a little cocktail courage to numb the flutters in my belly and calm the jittery nerves causing this underarm dampness situation.

What the hell were you thinking? You know better than to accept a dare from Priya!

I blame the third pink martini. Or maybe it was the fourth? At some point, I lost count. Though, ironically, in order for them to succeed in their mission, I needed for them to be stronger.

So, how do I get out of this pickle?

Come on, Palmer, the real question is how do you bail without Priya giving your failure to perform the starring role in every brunchtime conversation from now till Christmas.

My inner self has always been way too practical, but she’s hopeless at problem solving. Any minute now, I expect Priya to knock politely on the bathroom door—because even wasted, she’s gracious—asking sweetly if I’ve come up with a plan.

No, Priya, I have not come up with a plan for completely embarrassing myself while somehow maintaining that last shred of self-respect. But if you have an idea, I’m all ears.

I kind of like the snarky bitch occupying my current thoughts, but she’s no real help either.

There are so many voices in my head that the two light thumps on the door to the hallway startle me, and in the process of spinning to face the noise, I somehow manage to dump my purse into the sink. Because of course I do.

“Hey, Priya, I’ll be right out!”

“Not Priya.”

I cock my head. No, that low rumbly voice was definitely not Priya. It was unbelievably arousing—like the baritone timbre of my favorite male book narrator—but not the friend I left waiting at a table a short walk from here. The man’s deep grumble vibrates in my belly.

“Give me a minute!” I yell out to Not Priya, then shove everything back in my purse and rush to swing open the door.

Where I discover the most panty-scorching voice I’ve ever heard outside my earbuds belongs to my bad boy savior who kept me from falling flat on my face. Well, not my bad boy—and no boy at all, actually. Nope, this vision in thigh-snugging slacks and sleeves rolled to his elbows is all man.

Here I am, standing in the bathroom doorway with my arms stretched wide, one holding the door open and the other clutching the painted jamb and my satin wristlet. There’s probably a good amount of cleavage straining to pop free at the front of my dress but I’m afraid to look.

Now that he’s leaning against the wall right in front of me, I can see the man who rescued me from the back of the limo—and then took the table beside ours—has bright blue eyes and full, yet still unsmiling, lips.

It’s more than a little distracting. I should say something. Do something. I’m frozen in place.

He clears his throat.

“You about done?” His well-defined lips are still flat, but this time, there’s a bit of humor in his growl.

My eyes shoot up to meet his, and they’re not exactly smiling either, but the outside edges crinkle slightly.

“Done?” My eyelids slide closed. Yes, that squeak came from between my lips.

When I reopen my eyes, the bad boy has straightened with his arms folded across his chest. And dear lord, that tattoo.

There’s a baseball glove holding a pocket watch and all manner of smaller designs intertwined, and the entire thing wraps around his forearm.

I fight the urge to reach out and trace it. With my finger. Or my tongue.

“Done objectifying me.” He raises his brow, but even without offering a smile, he seems more amused than annoyed.

Palmer, you are so busted .

“I was doing that, wasn’t I?”

“Is that a serious question?”

But you’re so pretty. See, tipsy me could say that. Sober me is wondering why this boozy school night adventure was ever a good idea in the first place.

“Umm.”

Any words I knew in a previous life have again left the building, and I just . . . stare. He flexes his fists and the corded muscles of his forearms tighten, and holy hell, I wish I were still drunk. I could make such a fool of myself if I knew I wouldn’t remember it tomorrow.

I peer around him toward my table. With luck, Priya has noticed my extended absence and is coming to rescue me.

Nope, she seems pretty comfortable. What I also notice is his friends not so subtly darting glances our way—and openly snickering.

I step fully into the hallway and let the bathroom door close behind me.

My curls are a wild mane tonight and I push them off my face.

“Did you follow me over here?” I whisper my suspicion, because hey, if I’m wrong, the embarrassment that worried me earlier starts now.

One corner of his lips tips up. “Not follow . . . exactly.”

“Exactly what , then?” I narrow my eyes and take another peek at his friends. As a group, their eyes are glued to us.

“I’m calling dibs.” My bad boy is grinning, and damn him, he has a dimple. Just one.

“D-dibs? What are you talking about?” I realize with some amazement that, for the absurdity of this situation, I’m not afraid of this man. Wildly curious, but not scared.

“You gonna lie and say you weren’t planning a trip over to our table?”

My eyes go round. Well, fuck.

“Thought so.” He bobs his head slowly and gives me that broad smile again, damn him. I bet it never fails to lift skirts. “I’ll save you the trip.” He points in the direction of his table. “Look, those other guys over there are all too young for you.”

I have to agree, but this makes me laugh. “Well, that one looks about the same age as you. He might do.” I point to the clean-shaven bald guy. He’s hot, but?—

“Nope. Not available.”

“You just made that up.” I feign seriousness, but I’m just messing with him. It’s been so long since I flirted, I’m not even sure I’m doing it right.

“It’s . . . complicated.”

Ooh, the raspy growl is back, and hits my needy core just right.

It’s fascinating that he seems to be warning me away from something I’m not even interested in.

He reaches out and twirls one of my wild curls around his finger like a spring, and I don’t pull away.

When he releases it, it drops over the swell of my breast, and his eyes follow its descent.

After a moment, he lifts his gaze to mine and holds steady.

My pulse is racing— and what the hell?— but I don’t show him how affected I am.

“So, tell me what you planned to accomplish when you reached our table.”

He skims one finger over the back of my hand, clear to the tip of my pinkie. His fingertips are rough and calloused against my fair skin.

I lift one shoulder, but it takes all my concentration to keep my composure.

“I’m not really sure. A phone number, maybe?”

“You’re not sure? Wasn’t it your idea?”

I shake my head, and there goes my hair again, swishing along with the movement.

“It was a dare.”

He takes half a step closer and his voice goes even lower. Even deeper.

“This dare. It’s one you want to win?”

His eyes have golden flecks. I know this because I’m looking that intently.

“Why accept a dare if you don’t expect to win?”

“I think you and your friend have a sense of humor.” His face brightens, as though the idea amuses him. “I like that.”

And despite it being a bit of a whiplash, I like this new, lighthearted side of him.

“You say that like you haven’t been laughing with your boys since you settled at that table.”

He quirks one eyebrow. “You were watching me.”

He says it as a statement, not a question, and oh, fuck . Again.

“That’s good, darlin’. I was watching you, too.

” He shuffles closer still, and his taut abdomen presses against me.

The door is solid at my back and he braces one hand against it, shoulder high.

His other arm hangs benignly at his side.

“I’d say there’s a good chance you’re going to win your bet, but I think we can make it a whole lot more interesting. ”

He lowers his face into the crook of my neck and rubs his nose and the soft stubble on his chin against the sensitive skin there. I’m back to speechless, my heart hammering, my inhibitions in a dead faint.

I move one hand and place it tentatively on his chest, not sure whether I mean to pull him in or push him away. When he raises his face and his arm disappears from beside me, a low moan escapes me. Decision made .

But there’s a soft snick and the door behind me gives way. My hand clenches a handful of his shirt, and his strong arm wraps around my waist before I lose my balance and land on my ass on the somewhat disgusting bathroom floor.

“You’ve got quick reflexes, don’t you, bad boy?”

I peer around at the elegant tile and white china sink, and realize this dare isn’t going to end with his undoubtedly manufactured phone number on a crumpled bar napkin. I have no complaints.

“I got you, darlin’. Though . . . maybe we don’t want an audience.”

His eyes soften right before his lips take a gentle swipe at my neck, causing goose bumps to erupt and cover my skin. I give him a gentle tug and he raises his head. His bright gaze meets mine with a curious glint.

“Right. No audience. But I might like to know your name.”

“Well, aren’t you amusing.” The solid wall of muscle under my palm vibrates with what I realize is silent laughter.

“You think my request is funny?”

“Absolutely, considering you haven’t shared your name either.”

Well, crap. Do I give him my real name? I already decided I feel safe with him, as illogical as that seems. He definitely doesn’t give off the ick vibe. My arm slides up his chest till my hand wraps around the back of his neck.

“My friends call me Palmer. What should they call you?”

He cocks his head and stares, as if contemplating his answer. He takes my free hand and wraps it around his trim waist, his grin morphing to something almost playful.

“Palmer, girl, my friends call me Murph. But there was a time when bad boy fit too.” His palm splays wide over my cheek and he lowers his lips to whisper at the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Let me show you just how bad I can be.”

Ooh, lordy, this is going to be good.