Page 39 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

“Marry you? You mean, like, for real?”

Not gonna lie, I’ve wondered what it would be like to actually be engaged to Max. But only in that, never really gonna happen but what if I won the Powerball kind of way. But to plan on it? No .

“Yes, I mean for real. No more fake engagement bullshit. No more keeping it on the down low. I want it to be the main event in our next presser.”

“But what . . .”

I stop mid-sentence. I don’t even know what question to ask.

“Max, we can’t just . . .”

I am spinning. I can feel the actual whirling of my brain cells.

President of Overthinkers’ Anonymous, right here.

Another membership card for my collection.

Why is it I have to consider and contemplate every side of an idea until I’ve turned it inside out and backwards?

Max is patiently waiting for me to process, when most men I know would have long ago told me what I’m feeling or how to act about it.

“Yeah, babe, we can.”

He’s freaking serious about this.

“Okay, so . . . actually holding a wedding—I can see the advantage. But what about the rest?”

Like, how do we address the vow to love? It’s as though we’re playing a strategy game but important pieces are missing.

He lets out a slow breath from between his lips. Rubs his knuckle over his forehead, and then down the scruff on his chin. It’s an effective distraction, if that’s what he’s aiming for. The insides of my thighs are still pink from that beard.

“Damn it, Max, there you go again.” I stamp my foot like a four-year-old, and he sucks back a grin. “You make my damn head spin.”

He glances at the clock on the nightstand, and my gaze follows his. He should probably leave soon, get to the field to eat before he’s due in the training room.

“No head spinning, Palmer Girl. We got this.” He slides a curl off my face and lets his hand caress my scalp. “What are the thoughts rolling around in here?”

I lean into his touch, and it’s gentle, and sweet. It’s no girl’s dream to calculate the reasons for a marriage without deep emotion. Well, unless you’re royalty, maybe. Or the mob. I toss my head back and squeeze my eyes shut.

“All the things,” I say. It comes out as a wail, though, because apparently, I really am four. His hand rushes to cover his mouth, but not before I spot his dimple. Damn him, he’s enjoying this.

“All right, then. Itemize them. Give me a list.”

Doesn’t he understand what a bad idea that is? Why would I want to name my worries, just so we can dissect them? I’m not responsible for any fallout.

If I had a whiteboard, I could make a hell of a presentation. Since it’s just me and my fingers here today, I hold one up for each item as I say it out loud. The first ones are obvious and come out in a rush.

“Number one, is this the right thing to do? Number two, will Dylan be okay with it? Number three, what about Natalie?”

He opens his mouth as if to interrupt, and I cut him off.

“Nope, let me finish, then we’ll discuss them all.”

“All right.” He nods his agreement, and I lift my hand to continue counting.

“Okay, we’re on number . . .”

“Four.”

“Four, right. Thank you.” I spread four fingers and tuck my thumb into my palm. “Number four is Adele. Max, this affects a lot of people.”

“Palmer, this is only about you, and me. Everyone else will be on board. What’s number five?”

I’m not sure how I feel about his absolute certainty. I release my thumb and starfish my fingers.

“What do I do with my house? It’s cute and I like it.”

He tips his head to the side and gives me side-eye, as though this concern is valid but not life-altering, and shouldn’t be a factor. He might be right, but still.

“You keep it, if you want. Use it as a rental, or an escape. Anything else?”

He’s on a ticking clock, but he’s not impatient. I’ll have to talk to him about that. Tell him how much I appreciate it.

“Yeah,” I sigh out on a long breath paired with a slow nod and my lips twisted. This one is embarrassing. “Do you really want my crappy car parked in your driveway?”

Max chuckles at me, kind of like an indulgent parent. We’re going to have to talk about that, too.

“Ah, the car. I’m warning you now, we do this and there will be a new car in the garage for you.”

I was afraid of that. He doesn’t ever seem overconcerned about appearances, but he does like comfort.

“But—”

“I want that for you.”

“Max—”

“Palmer, it’s your car, and it’s not crappy. Do whatever you want with it. Maybe give it to Dylan?”

Dylan, right. At least he isn’t trying to buy my son, too. Fighting his grandfather is hard enough.

“Good idea,” I mutter against the wave of relief and absolute terror washing through my entire person.

Max leans down and kisses me hard.

“Anything else?”

I have one more concern, and it’s a biggie. How can I go along with this when I know he doesn’t love me? Lucky for both of us, my hand’s out of fingers.

“Nope. I guess we covered all the important stuff.”

“Look, I should get downstairs with the team,” he says as he gathers up what he needs. “Stay here and finish up, decide what you want to do, and then take the WAGS bus to the park.”

“Whoa, whoa! I am not staying here in this room alone with all those thoughts. You want me to be a crazy woman?”

“Babe, believe me, you’ll thank me. Now, I need to be on my way. I’m late, and I really can’t let you?—”

“ Let me?” I don’t screech like the crazy woman I just threatened him with. But I want to.

“Look, calm down?—”

I growl out loud.

“I swear, Max Murphy, if you tell me how to behave one more time, I’ll . . . oomph! ” I grunt when he bends down and tosses me over his shoulder. Then, he takes off through the living room and then the bedroom—all the way to the bathroom.

“Put me down, you caveman!” I shout while pounding on his back.

He gives my ass a slap, but it’s an easy target, bouncing against his cheek with every one of his long strides.

At last, he lowers me to the bathroom counter.

Where I was seated when this debacle involving Alejandro and his ridiculous travel plans began.

Lightbulb moment .

I whip my head to inspect my face in the mirror, and yep, there I am with eyebrows done, tinted moisturizer with SPF50 glazed over every plane and contour of my face and neck, and liner and mascara on one of my eyes.

Yes, one .

And . . . I’m done. Done losing sleep—and my shit—whenever Alejandro contacts me.

Done remembering I’m in a fake relationship with a man I’m crazy about, but I promised not to tell anyone except the jerk who’s the cause of all this angsty drama.

All Max and I have is a verbal agreement.

How much weight will that carry if Alejandro drags out his machismo and tests it? Am I willing to find out?

“All right,” I say calmly to the reflection of Max’s back.

“Look, if we get married, he won’t have a leg to— Did you say all right?”

“Yeah, you can stop selling it.”

“I’m not selling anything, I’m explaining.”

“I want to know how we’re explaining it to our kids.”

With my other eye complete, I climb down from the counter.

“Are you all packed?”

He moves into the bedroom and collects his clothes.

“What’s to explain? They’re going to love it.”

Well, they probably won’t hate it, but they’ve both been raised as the only child in the house. At the very least, it will be interesting.

“Dylan will,” I concede. “A built-in baseball field and an on-call pitching coach? You better be ready for that, by the way. There’ll be no pulling him out of the clouds.”

“Natalie, too. She already thinks you’re cooler than me.”

Max was a good sport about my makeup and hair products laid out on the counter all weekend. I pack it back up in its zipper bag while he zips his carry-on and gives his tie a tug that seems like a nervous gesture.

“That’s because I am,” I tell him. “She lets me say dope .”

He tosses the pillows against the headboard with a full-bellied laugh.

“See! You’re just proving my point.”

“Just stating a fact.” My carry-on is open on the luggage rack, so I traipse across the room to add my makeup bag. “And I want to pick out my own car.”

Max waves me away when my carry-on won’t zip. Why are they always harder to close for the trip home?

“We’ll talk about it,” he tenuously agrees. My bag thuds when he drops it to the floor, and I take the handle from him.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I roll it toward the rest of our luggage. It seems heavier than before. Then, I remember we were talking about cars. Specifically, my new car. “I think we need boundaries, and that seems like a good place to start.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Jesus, you already sound like a wife,” Max teases as he moves to open it.

I want to preen. Wife.

But my conscience is a snarky bitch today, and cuts in, ticking off the reasons this is a really bad idea, and boundaries is only the top of her list. Exposure is in there somewhere, too, along with gold-digger, and a couple other issues I’ve been avoiding.

Do I just sweep those worries away and hope the haters don’t come after me?

Max lets in the bellman with a rolling cart. I’m sure they’re trained not to judge the amount of luggage—we’ve got a pile for this weekend trip—but there’s definite side-eye happening. Max just pats him on the shoulder and shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he’s looking at.

“My fiancée’s really something, am I right? I couldn’t believe this was all she brought either.”

The guy just gives him a crooked grin, and Max leaves him to it and comes to stand beside me. I take his hand and lock our fingers. How did I ever think of him as a surly adversary?

“Really something, huh? So, you still want to marry me?” I ask in a quiet voice while the bellman muscles our suitcases onto the cart.

“You’re damn right I do,” he replies decisively, eyes trained on me. When the bellman’s done, Max moves to hold open the door, and hands him a tip as he passes through. “And it’s happening fucking tomorrow.”

We follow the guy out, the slamming of the door echoing in the hallway, along with Max’s laughter. My lingering doubts evaporate.

Before we’re even at the elevator, I pull out my phone to send

Alejandro an answering text—short and sweet, and total bullshit.

Me: Can’t wait to see you.

I’m going to hell for lying.