Page 30 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

The hostess leads us to a booth along the wall—bright blue vinyl seats and a table of pink patterned Formica—and we each slide in and grab the drink menus in one smooth motion.

“I called Sara to see if she could join us, but she’s not back from Maui yet. She said to give you a hug though, so that back there—she flicks her thumb over her shoulder—that was from her.”

“What I wouldn’t give for two weeks on a tropical island with my two best friends,” I lament.

Priya nods her enthusiastic agreement. “You’ve got that right.”

It seems so long ago that I moved to Nashville and met Priya and Sara, and even though they’re both several years younger, we’ve become fast friends.

We’ve all had big changes in our lives since then, and even though we’re on our group chat daily, we rarely get together more than a couple of times a month.

After a few minutes of perusing the menu and debating our options, I peer over the top of the laminated menu when a man’s voice comes from my side.

“You beautiful ladies ready to order?”

The request comes from our server, a guy I didn’t notice walking up to our table, and someone I don’t recognize. He’s on-brand for this establishment, dressed in white jeans and a neon pink polo with a flamingo-shaped name tag that says Ben.

“Hey, Ben, you new here?” Priya asks, and my eyebrows shoot up. Not only is her comment forward, it’s so out of character, I gawk at her.

“What?” she demands of me when she notices my expression. I merely spread my hands wide with a grin. Girl’s allowed to flirt a little, and I’m here for the show.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben stoically responds to her original question, and doesn’t offer any personal commentary. “What are we drinking?”

The atmosphere of this place usually demands something fruity and frothy, but tonight, I don’t feel any of that. Not fruity; definitely not frothy. Tonight, I’m going hard-core.

“Jack and Diet Coke,” I say, as close as I can manage to hard drinking, and Priya orders our usual pina colada, then looks at me with her eyebrows raised.

Ben makes note of our orders, his attention focused on his tablet, and once he determines we’re not also ordering appetizers, he gives us the rote, “Your orders will be out soon,” and takes off across the room.

“You’re drinking whiskey on a school night?” The incredulity in Priya’s question makes it seem as if she’s never seen me drink anything stronger than the pina colada she ordered. Fair, though. It has been a while.

“I am,” I say. “And we’ll dive into the reason for that in just a minute. But first, can I please point out . . . you just got ma’amed,” I tease. “You want to tell me what Flirty Priya was all about?”

“Not flirting. Just . . . okay, I was flirting. And I’m bad at it. Really bad.”

“And this was brought on by?—”

“Fucking Big Ego,” she snarls. And the tea is spilled.

So, Oscar again. The fans call him Big O because of his superior play on the ice. We’re not that nice.

“What’s he want now?”

“He thinks we should get back together.”

My jaw drops.

“And you need to practice flirting, because why ?”

Ben chooses this moment to return with our drinks, and our conversation takes a pause. My curiosity—it’s just revving up.

Ben hands Priya her glass with a frilly paper umbrella. When he drops a paper coaster in front of me and then sets my drink on it, I say, “Ben, my man, we’re going to need another round, pronto, and probably food to go with it.”

Without comment, he puts our drink order into the tablet, adds the super-sized appetizer sampler we decide on, and then he’s gone again, without a backward glance. Priya watches him stroll away.

When she turns back to the table, I point over my shoulder in the direction Ben walked, then plop my elbows on the table and drop my chin into my hands. I’m all ears.

“Time to fess up, sista.”

Priya’s sigh is deep.

“Maybe if I have a boyfriend, Oz will move on and just let me do my job.”

“Really not his MO, though, is it, taking the high road?”

Priya scowls. “Nope. It’s really not, damn him.”

Not the Oscar we both knew and hated. Not unless his personality’s done a one-eighty since the last time we were in contact.

“So, I’ve got to know what brought this on,” I say. “Is he just being his usual prickish self, or are you helping him take his clothes off, as well as dressing him in style?”

Priya drops her head to the table. “There may have been a kiss,” she moans.

It’s muffled, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing.

“And I don’t want to talk about it,” she continues.

“I know it’s gonna go south, whatever it is—there’s no way to avoid it.

So”—she lifts her head and looks me dead in the eye—“I just need to know you’re going to be there for me when it does. ”

I reach across the table and trap her hand in mine.

“Oh, sweetie, you are my ride or die. Of course, I’ll be there for you when the asshole breaks your heart again.”

She chuffs out a laugh, as I hoped she would, and even if it’s a little weak, she made it to the other side of her pity party without a downpouring of tears. I was there for her the last time he wrecked her, and if need be, I’ll be there again this time—to knee him in the balls.

The bit of humor seems to have revived her, and she visibly shakes off her troubles then gives me a grin like she’s positively over it, and stares at me, hard.

“All right, Palmer, now we’re moving on to you.

You activated the bat signal, and even though you managed to derail our conversation with my crap, I’ve waited on pins and needles all day for you to come clean.

Is this a rant, an intervention, or do I need a shovel?

I mean, I don’t own one, but I have a gardening trowel. ”

Oh, Pree . She may have just piled a load of shit on our girls’ night out, but she has no idea what I am about to unload on her. I rip the Band-Aid right off the jagged wound.

“Alejandro is on a tirade again for me to move back to California.”

With that handful of words, my anger is already spiking. Her eyes go big and round.

“Well, shit.”

I nod. Yep .

“Wait, there’s more.”

“Is this the part where you tell me why we’re drinking our dinner?”

I reach for my glass, but it’s empty. Ben hasn’t delivered our next round yet, or the food we’ll need so we don’t slither out the door when we’re finished.

“First, we have to actually be drinking. I’ll be right back.” I grab our empties and escape to the bar.

Minutes later, I’ve relieved Ben of our appetizer plate, and I’m somewhat but not quite ready to tackle the hard subject. I stare at Priya across our little table.

“His darling son is being transferred closer to home, so he wants . . .” I can’t even finish.

“Whoa, whoa! You’re not moving, are you?”

“Of course, I’m not moving!” I insist, definitely not using my inside voice. “First, there’s no way in hell I’m getting mixed up with that family again. Second, there’s no way in hell I’m getting mixed up with that family again. And third?—”

“Oh, wait! Let me guess,” she interrupts.

I pop up my eyebrow.

“There’s no way in hell you’re getting mixed up with that family again?”

“Ding, ding!” I pretend I’m ringing a bell.

“Does Dylan know what’s going on?”

“Yeah. Not only is he reaching out to Dylan directly”—I have to pause for Priya to recover from her gasp and her string of not-so-muttered curses, then I continue—“He walked in on a phone conversation between me and his grandfather not long ago. It wasn’t pretty.”

“The poor kid. And?”

“He’s upset, of course. We’ll get through it.”

“You should contact an attorney.”

“That’s what Max says, too.”

Once again, she pops up straight in her seat.

“Max knows about what happened?”

I pause for a heartbeat.

“It came up. He was . . . upset.”

“Why? Was he affected? Did he get caught in Alex’s scheme?”

And Jesus, I am so thankful there are a couple of people I can be totally open with. Not many know the whole truth and love me anyway.

“No, not that I know of. He didn’t mention it when we discussed the whole thing, and I think he would have.”

“I guess that’s good, right? It makes it easier to be around him at school events.”

And though I gave her the news I need to share with her, I avert my attention to the group coming in through the bright pink door, and then the frenetic activity at the subtly lit bar.

Anywhere but to my friend sitting across from me, patiently waiting, and not at all expecting what I’m about to say.

“Pree, we’ve sort of been . . . seeing each other.”

Priya flops back in her seat, her eyes widened.

“Palmer,” she whispers, and I nod, worry and optimism warring in my chest.

This announcement wouldn’t normally seem like a big deal, except it is a pretty big deal. She knows how hard I’ve worked to live my life low-key, under the radar. No social media, no large footprint in the world.

“I know,” I whisper back. “He’s got a big life, famous friends, the whole nine yards. Or, all bases covered, as it were,” I joke in another one of those baseball analogies, but it falls flat. She doesn’t laugh.

“Palmer, he’s in the news, like, every week. How are you going to deal with that?”

Her voice is still low, urgent. I get it. I’ve worked myself into this relationship with Max little by little, baby steps. She’s hearing about a fait accompli.

“Mostly, I’ve only had to deal with Alejandro. He’s really been putting on the pressure.”

“Ugh, that’s an ugly mess. And such a blatant case of libel, I can’t believe anyone would believe it, much less publish it.”

“Yeah, Max contacted his attorney and they’re on it.”

“But Alejandro. What can you do to get him to stop?”

I open my mouth to tell her, to spill my own tea. But Ben, bless him, chooses now to appear and ask if we need anything else. We still have half our appetizers because, damn, that’s a lot of fried food, but we order another round. We’re both going to need a rideshare to get home.

“Alejandro’s never going to stop. Not unless he knows there’s absolutely no way I can ever get back with Alex.”

“Ooh, is this where we use the shovel?” she growls with narrowed eyes, but she’s joking. I’m pretty sure she’s joking. I chuckle, regardless. It is kind of funny.

“It’s an idea, Pree. But Max has one, too. Idea, I mean. Not a shovel.” Though, knowing him, he wouldn’t be opposed.

Priya leans forward, all interest.

“Do tell.”

“He said he’ll marry me.”

She flops back in her seat, again, scowling.

“Well, that’s not romantic at all.”

The sip I took while I waited for her to reply snorts out through my nose. Gross .

“Not a marriage marriage,” I say as I wipe my whiskey snot off the table. “More like, an engagement of convenience?—”

“Like in historical romance novels?”

I shrug. “Sure, but whatever. I almost turned him down, but?—”

“You what? ” she nearly shouts, and I shush her. “Your knight in white baseball pants offers you a get-out-of-jail-free card from your evil ex-father-in-law, you don’t turn him down! My friend, this is not how Cinderella acts when she’s offered the key to the castle.”

I burst into laughter so loud, it’s impossible not to arouse curiosity from the table next to us. I grimace and snap my mouth shut, but my chest is still quaking.

“Tell me, is he no good in the sack? Because if that’s the case, then yeah, I can see why you’d pass, but?—”

“Priya, please!” I cut in. I’m back to chuckling, but this girl is tipsy and getting loud with it. “We haven’t made it all the way naked,” I admit in a lowered voice. And now that I’ve told her this much, I want to tell her everything.

“Not yet, you mean.” Her smile is smug, if a little crooked. She’s got this all figured out in her befuddled mind. I’m about to rock it, though.

“I think I might love him.”

I have no illusions that our arrangement will be as simple as this, but drunk Pree is not ready for the gory details.

“Oh, Palmer! You’re going to be so happy, I just know it,” Pree squeals with drunken delight. She’s totally focused on the idea of me finding my happily ever after, and once again, we’re dodging impatient glares from our neighbors.

I’m in the final stages of preparing for bed, still a little buzzed, but totally relaxed, when my phone buzzes and a message comes through. I dive to answer. It could be Max, calling me after his game. After the night, and the conversation, I had tonight, I really want to talk to him.

It’s Alejandro, though, and I nearly don’t open the app. It’s a little alarming that he’s calling this late, though it’s never stopped him before. Regardless, it’s definitely not the way I want to end this day.

West Coast Connection: I spoke with my son this evening. He is happy that you will be moving back to him in California. He will be a father again. I will call you tomorrow on the FaceTime.

The man is not only delusional, but now, he’s sharing his bogus reality with anyone who will listen.

He can come at me all he wants, but I’m not transplanting my son to California.

I am not getting mixed up with Alex again; not now, or anytime in the future of ever.

And for now, Alejandro Lopez is done taking over my thoughts.