Page 35 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

I rouse to the sound of Max in the shower, the steady splash of the spray hitting ceramic tile, and a twisted mess of comforter and cool sheets beneath my palm.

Late afternoon light streams in at the edges of the closed blinds and I squint against it.

I didn’t mean to doze off, and I wonder if Max did too.

Max is awake, preparing to leave for tonight’s flight, and he left the bathroom door ajar.

Nice . I push my hair off my face, and scoot so the covers are pulled to my still-naked chest and I’m sitting against the headboard, awaiting his naked reflection in the plate glass mirror once he steps out.

Yes, like a perv. Because, apparently, I’ve become addicted to the sight of this man with no clothes on—his colorful tattoos, his gloriously firm muscles.

But then, I remind myself—he’s leaving soon.

I maneuver a pillow for support between my back and my antique iron bed frame, and reach for my phone, one eye on my peep show, enjoying him while he’s here.

I didn’t miss anything from Dylan, though I didn’t expect him to reach out so soon. Assembling a polyester tent in the woods and cooking over an outdoor fire were high on his list of anticipated adventures. Checking in with the woman who birthed him? Somewhat lower.

The water stops and the shower curtain scrapes back on its rod.

Max steps one foot over the side of the tub, and then the other, the me-sized towel that’s nowhere big enough for his large frame caught in his hands as he uses it to dry his hair.

There’s no way that thing will fit around his waist without gaping, and I smirk behind my hand, quietly so I don’t betray myself and draw his attention.

With a shrug, he drapes it over his shoulders and pads into the bedroom, buck-ass naked.

And pulls up short with a wicked grin when he spots me watching him.

“Enjoying the show?”

“Possibly,” I say. I’m lying. I wouldn’t be mad if he returned to the bathroom and then walked back in. “Were you beat-boxing? ”

He goes a little pink from the neck up. And braces himself over me on the bed.

“We don’t tell a soul,” he growls into my neck, and I laughingly cringe when the low rumble of his voice causes goose bumps to rise on the flesh of my bare shoulder.

“Are you kidding? I was about to video it for later and watch it with popcorn.”

He pops his face out of my neck, his nose inches from mine, his expression earnest.

“Come with me.”

I pull my head back. “What?” It’s a natural reaction to say that. I know perfectly well what he just said, and the idea is crazy. Tempting, but?—

“On my trip. Come to Michigan with me for the weekend.” His eyes light with excitement. “Look, Nat’s with Adele. And Dylan is with his friend. When was the last time you got away?”

Pretty much never, that’s when.

Without waiting for me to respond out loud, he tackles me, rolling over me and pulling us down so we’re flat on the mattress together and tangled in already-rumpled sheets.

“We could do grown-up things together. You know . . . later.”

“I . . . ” My mind is racing. Can I do this? What if Dylan needs me?

He’s ripping the covers from my body, working his lips down my naked chest, pausing to tease one nipple, and then its neglected mate.

“Palmer, I want your pussy in my mouth and I want it devouring my cock,” he mumbles with his mouth full of breast, his eyes hot and zeroed in on mine, and my core tenses in response. “Every goddamned night. And day. All weekend long.”

His plan has merit. I could get on board with it. Granted, he’s pretty much expected to be at the ballpark a few times, but we’ll squeeze that in.

If I leave a message for Priya to be on standby, call Gabe’s dad and leave them her number . . .

“I hear you overthinking, Palmer Girl. Just make your calls and pack your shit. All you have to worry about is how long it is before we check into our hotel and I can strip you bare.”

At the last minute, I throw in my bikini.

Truth be told, it was Priya’s idea to bring it along. Her demand, really, but she’s on call while I play hooky in another state, so I’m not about to tell her no. I’ve never been to Detroit. I have no idea of the weather forecast, or if I’ll even have a chance to wear it, but damn it, it’s with me.

We’re cutting our timing close, but after I threw a few things in a bag, and then we swung by Max’s so he could change into his traveling suit and grab his stuff, well . . . we probably shouldn’t have snuck those few extra minutes before we left his place.

Then again, I got to watch the man put on that suit for a second time —pulling his dark gray dress slacks over his solid thighs, buttoning the snow-white tapered dress shirt that hides his hard pecs and colorful forearm, confidently knotting his dark necktie and transforming himself into a freaking thirst trap.

My libido sighs. Totally worth the delay.

We roll our cases into the charter terminal to find the rest of the team milling about, killing time as everyone waits to board our plane.

A group of ladies I don’t recognize but assume are WAGS are chatting with each other and laughing out loud, and small children are running around and screaming—seemingly unsupervised.

Kids are great, I have one of my own, but hopefully, these are getting rid of their extra energy before they’re confined to the plane, where they will immediately fall asleep.

The ladies look up as we stroll past, wave a hello to Max, totally ignore me, and turn back to their conversation. Tough crowd .

Chin up, Palmer.

I rarely let myself remember the bitches who brunch crowd I ran with when I was married to SoCal’s hotshot money man.

It’s too damn humiliating to think of myself behaving with such entitlement—and my so called friends’ back stabbing after that long fall my husband’s seedy escapades treated me to.

Never again. Since I moved east and have been teaching, well, I’ve learned how to make true friends, and win over difficult personalities with humor and kindness, and this sits better.

Case in point, the grumpy girl dad currently tugging me toward our boarding gate.

We don’t bother the guys who found a quiet spot and are chilling with a book or their headphones.

Another group, though, set up a makeshift table and have some kind of card game going, everyone bent over their hands, with their jackets abandoned and their sleeves rolled to their elbows, and the trash talk is raucous. We head in that direction.

We pull up beside them and leave our bags against the wall.

Max left his jacket folded over his arm for the ride here, and drops it over his hard-sided travel bag sitting beside my smaller rolling bag.

The guys toss their cards to the table and stand, while Max makes the rounds of handshakes and bro hugs, introducing me to everyone.

“Palmer, this is Tripp, Diesel, Chase, and Gunnar.” He points his finger at each of them, in turn, then gives them what Dylan calls the stink eye. “Y’all don’t get to flirt with her,” he says in a threatening tone, and they all burst out laughing.

“Ooh, back off, boys, or the old man’s gonna aim his pick-off at your nuts instead of your glove,” Diesel chirps, and the rest of them tease back with a chorus of oooohs .

They all seem friendly, and fun, tossing out digs about each other and the Hawks, the team they’ll be playing against for the next three days. Tripp watches me extra closely, then snaps his fingers and points at me.

“Yo, I know you!” he remarks with a nod, and then a smirk aimed at Max. “From my event.”

“You saw her there,” Max growls, interrupting what these players would, no doubt, consider a funny story, and I want to crawl under a chair. The night Max and I met is one I never want to forget, but the tequila-soaked dare, and my subsequent behavior, is not what I want to be remembered for.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Tripp responds, and that seems to be the end of it. I blow out a slow, quiet breath and rejoin their conversation.

“Glad you could join us, Murphy,” a booming voice calls out across the cavernous room, inciting a fresh round of oooh and burn, and you’re in trouble now from everyone around us .

I look over my shoulder, and it’s a guy who’s a bit older, sporting a short beard and graying hair.

Pretty sure I recognize him as someone from the coaching staff.

Max laughs them all off with a raised middle finger, and glances the guy’s way, too, acknowledging him with a chin nod before turning to me.

The other four turn back to their card game.

“That’s Declan. I better go talk to him. Come say hello with me. I don’t know if you’ve met.” He takes my hand to lead me away, but I pull back.

“He’s a coach?” I look up at Max and he peers down to meet my eyes.

“The team manager.”

The team manager is scowling.

“You’re sure it’s okay that I come along on this trip?”

He leans down to murmur in my ear, “Relax. I invited you for a few days of fun; it’s not some nefarious plot to make you my sex slave.”

My mouth opens, but then closes. I’m speechless. But then again, I could be his sex slave. I snort laugh, which I’m sure Max misinterprets. I have no intention of clarifying, though, especially while he’s pulling me by the hand with his long stride.

“Look, it’s my call if I want someone on the flight, and I say it’s okay,” he says as I rush to keep up, my heels clicking on the industrial flooring, then nearly careen to a halt when we get to this Declan character.

I push my curls off my face, and run a hand down the front of my skirt.

As first impressions go, I’d rather he doesn’t remember this one, either.

“Hey, Dec,” Max says simply, with his right hand shoved out. I’m still latched to him with the other.

“Murph. Cutting it a little close, yeah?”

“Here and ready to rock. This is Palmer Sloan, don’t know if you’ve met.”