Page 40 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

It’s dark by the time I pull into Palmer’s driveway. I shut off the engine of my Escalade and can’t hold back my yawn. Days like today—afternoon game, flight home, late night? Brutal . The silver lining? She’s asleep in the seat to the right of me.

I unbuckle so I can stretch across the console and kiss her awake. It takes a minute, but her eyes finally flutter open. By the time I have her stuff unloaded from the back of my SUV, she’s standing in the driveway, stretching and yawning.

“Good thinking, leaving a light on,” I say as we climb the steps to her front door. I set her bags down and line them up nearby.

She glances up at the fixture, then quickly away, squinting from its brightness.

“Everything outside has dusk-to-dawn lighting and motion sensors.” Her keys are in her hand, jingling as she separates the one that opens the door.

“Smart.”

I give her what I hope is a wise-looking nod, meant to demonstrate how impressed I am. I’m waiting for her to call bullshit because I know nothing about home improvement .

“Well, you know. A woman on her own . . .” Her words cut off, and she ends them with a shrug.

Yeah, I’ll be talking to my handyman about these sensor thingies.

“Yeah. Good idea.”

It’s been eighteen hours since I’ve been inside this woman, twelve since I asked her to be my wife.

Why we’re sharing small talk like I’m dropping off a grocery delivery instead of luggage from a three-day fuckfest, is beyond me.

Give me a three-two count with bases loaded and fucking Ohtani at the plate, and I’m a stone-cold master of the universe.

Palmer with her makeup gone and blue smudges under her eyes from following my ass around all day, and all I know is I need to make it better.

The lock clicks and she pushes the door wide. I roll her cases inside and take a look around. Memories assault me of the last time I stood right here, and didn’t notice more than her in a robe slipping off one shoulder. It wasn’t a minute before I was carrying her to bed.

Second door on the right.

I look down the dark hallway, following that path with my eyes. Palmer kicks her shoes off and they slide into the baseboard. She moves away and speaks up from behind me.

“So, I know it’s late, but do you want to come in, get something to eat or drink maybe? It’s been a day.”

Her invitation is lackluster. We’re both tired and I’m on my way to moody, but I do. I do want to come in. I need to end this day, and this weekend, well. And I need my hands on her.

“Sure, thanks. Maybe something cold to drink?” I take a step into the living room. I didn’t get much of an impression before when I was here, but I notice it now.

“Your house looks like you,” I say, loudly, so she can hear me in the kitchen. Her house has a nice, open floor plan, but the rooms aren’t tiny.

“Like me? You mean, kinky?” She peers at me over her shoulder with a weary smile, holding out a lock of her hair, stretching out the curl and then letting it go.

Her playfulness is lowkey but it isn’t forced. I grin at her humor.

A cupboard door bangs shut and ice tinkles as it’s dropped into glasses. A drawer slides open and there’s a clatter of silverware before it slides shut.

“No, like, friendly. And comfortable.” I practically moan that last part as I dig myself deeper into her cushioned sofa. “I can see why you’d miss living here.”

“Yeah, I think I might,” she calls back. “Buying it was the first truly independent thing I did when I moved to Tennessee.”

She comes back with two tall glasses of iced tea, holding one out to me.

“It’s decaf,” she says, and after a heartbeat, follows it directly with, “I’d miss you more if I stay.”

I take my glass from her but it takes my sluggish brain way too long to compute what she just said.

She takes a swallow from her tea, her eyes focused on me, as if she’s patiently waiting for me to understand, and when I do, something shifts in my chest and I cannot look away.

She may be agreeing to our marriage to keep from legal entanglements with her ex’s family, but me, my motives are pure selfishness.

I want Palmer Sloan in my life, and in my house.

More, I want her in my arms and in my bed every goddamn night.

“Glad that’s settled.” She laughs softly as I pull her down and she sinks onto my lap. I tug her closer and drop my lips to hers, then groan into her neck and murmur, “Still not close enough, Palmer Girl.”

My jacket is laid out on the back seat of my SUV, and I loosened my tie and the throat of my shirt somewhere over Ohio.

She tugs my shirttails from my waistband, and gets to work freeing the rest of my buttons from their holes.

When she shifts so she’s straddling me, her slim skirt bunches high on her thighs and my hands immediately slide under the fabric to cup her ass.

I’ll never tire of my palms on her skin.

“Tell me now if you want me to leave. If you just want to go to sleep.”

I’m trying to be a gentleman. Doing a mostly fine job of it, too. But she’s looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

“Are you kidding? Hell, yes, I want to go to sleep. I can’t even count how long this day has been.” She scrambles off my lap and slides her skirt back down her thighs. “But we still have another kid-free day. I want kid-free sex, so you’re gonna have to suck it up.”

“Babe, hold on. I get you, believe me, but we can wait till we’re not so sleepy, if that’s better. Maybe, morning sex?”

I mean, I’m not so tired I can’t get it up, but she nods, as if agreeing. I chalk it up to the first of however many not tonight, I’m too tired excuses I’ll get in the future.

“Morning sex is good. I like morning sex. You know what else is good?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “Sleepy sex.”

Next thing I know, my wrist is in her hand and I’m trailing behind her down the hall.

Second door on the right.

Sleepy sex is . . . dope . Why haven’t I ever experienced that before?

Slow building desire, languid passion, quiet murmurs and pulses of seductive movement.

Intimate and caring kisses. Orgasms you never want to end.

Then, when they do, it’s finding each other in the dark and holding on while you share that one final moment of serenity before sleep claims you.

I wake to residual contentment, the smell of coffee, and the sound of Palmer moving around in her bathroom. She’s dressed in jeans and a casual blouse, her hair is braided over one shoulder, and she’s poking at her eye with a mascara wand.

I draw her attention when I shuffle to sit against the pillows.

“Hey, you’re awake,” she chirps, like she got a whole lot more sleep than I did. I never pegged her for a morning person.

“You planning to do both eyes, this time?” I tease in a hoarse morning voice.

She slides a few items off the counter and into a vanity drawer, then comes to stand beside me. I reach out to put my hand on her hip, and she sits on the edge of the bed.

“Coffee’s here, right beside you,” she says. I look behind me on the nightstand and, yes, it absolutely is. I take a sip, deep sigh, replace the mug, and clear my throat.

“Thanks, babe.”

She leans down and brushes her lips to mine. Her breath is minty. Mine probably tastes like coffee and ass.

“You’re welcome,” she says as she gets to her feet, and I throw the covers off, because today is a big day. I want to brush my teeth and kiss her properly.

She stops me with a hand on my shoulder before my legs make it over the side of the bed.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep? You don’t need to pick me up for a few hours, unless you have plans. And besides, I like thinking of you here.”

She likes thinking of me here. In her bed. Heh . Who am I to deny the woman?

“Yes, wife,” I tease again. And smack her on her ass as I lower myself back under the covers. “I’ll see you at noon.”

I’m waiting in the SUV when she walks out of school at ten after twelve.

She’s changed her clothes from the teacher mode fit she wore out of her house this morning to a long flowy skirt and a top of the same fabric, with a stretchy neckline and elastic around her arms that makes the short sleeves poufy.

It’s white. And gauzy. And sexy as fuck.

“What do you think?” she asks as she approaches.

She twirls as she meets me, and I catch her up and dip her into a kiss.

“You’re beautiful. I love it.”

She tugs at the skirt, pulling it wide and giving it an assessing stare.

“I pulled this from my closet, since I had virtually no time to shop. I think it looks bridal enough, but not so much that everyone at Gunnar’s party will give us the third degree.”

I’m in one of the suits I wear on game days, charcoal with a hairline stripe.

Nice enough, but I wouldn’t describe it as bridal .

I open the passenger side door of the SUV and help her climb in.

I lean in and almost kiss her, but pull back before I give myself away.

We’ve been fucking every night, and for the last few days, during the daylight hours, too.

But this marriage isn’t real. It isn’t two people madly in love. This is convenient.

Until I make her change her mind.

“You look perfect, babe. Mission accomplished.” Her features smooth out, as though in relief. As though I said the right thing to calm her nerves. I lean in anyway, put my mouth to her ear and whisper, “I can’t wait to peel it off.”

She’s got a mischievous, shit-eating grin on her face when she grabs my tie and flops back in the seat, yanking me close to her so her breath tickles my cheek when she whispers back, “Mission accomplished.”

Hell, yeah.

The process of getting married at the county courthouse is unbelievably simple. We provide a few government documents to a surly clerk in an upstairs cubicle. He’s ironically named Chad, and he exchanges them for a marriage license good for thirty days.

I made arrangements for an immediate ceremony, so we’re shown to a line of sturdy wooden chairs in the drafty hallway and instructed to wait.

People wander past from the left and the right, and stop for directions to the tax department, the recorder, the DMV, like I’m Google Maps.

I direct them all back downstairs to Reception.

The couple that followed us into the clerk’s office for a marriage license comes back out, and the woman is crying.

I squirm a little because, if I hadn’t decided to scroll my phone a little before hopping out of bed, I wouldn’t have learned we needed an appointment for the actual ceremony.

My next act was to make a call and maybe promise seats behind home plate to Carla Jean, the woman who was so helpful, and apparently, occupies the workstation next to Chad; I noticed her name plate on the counter.

Could be she told him of her windfall and that’s the root of his disagreeable attitude.

Doesn’t matter to me who answered the phone; I’m just glad it’s not Palmer crying today.

I squirm again, this time, to get comfortable.

These chairs are solid oak and have to be original to the historic building.

They aren’t exactly comfortable. Or designed for someone with legs as long as mine.

I stand to let them stretch, and lean my shoulder against the wall, and a different clerk soon steps into the hall and yells out, “Sloan-Murphy?”

I push off the wall and run my hand down my tie and over my trimmed beard, and, out of habit, check my shoelaces. Occupational hazard, but loose laces tend to cause injury on the field.

Palmer gets to her feet beside me, the light, filmy skirt of her outfit floating around her calves as she takes a halting step or two, then breaks stride with a pinched smile, and reaches back for my hand.

Girl seems nervous , though I don’t know what’s changed. We were fine this morning. Weren’t we?

The chamber we are led to looks a whole lot like a courtroom, complete with a platform where a judge would sit, two sturdy tables for the lawyers, that must have been purchased as a set with the chairs we just abandoned, and a rail to separate them from the rows of long spectator pews.

We’re ushered through the swinging gate at the barrier and meet the woman who’ll be officiating our ceremony.

She introduces herself as Clarissa Davies and gives us a basic rundown of what’s about to happen.

Palmer watches her intently, while my brain screams Get on with it.

Hell, we’ve all been to weddings before.

We know what to expect . It seems forever before we all take our places.

My heart rate increases while Ms. Davies is speaking, while we all shuffle into position, and a trickle of sweat tickles the back of my neck as it slides down into my collar. I reach up and rub at the spot.

Palmer appears calm, until I look more closely.

The tissue in her hands is fluttering and her eyes are glassy.

What is she thinking about? Worrying about?

Is it because the ceremony is so small, almost secret?

Because Dylan isn’t here? I raise a finger, signaling Davies to give us a moment, and step closer to speak into Palmer’s ear.

“Look, I know this isn’t every woman’s dream wedding, but?—”

She shakes her head.

“No, that’s not it.” She smiles quick, and then it’s gone, and it’s the least authentic I’ve ever seen her act.

“You still want to do this?” I ask, and the simple act of saying the words makes me realize how much I want this. What if she’s changed her mind and says no?

She straightens her shoulders and tips up her chin. Her lips are flat. “Yeah.”

My relief is so great, I can’t keep from touching her, so I reach for her, give the soft warm skin of her forearm a squeeze, then let my hand drift down to cover hers. In a moment, I’m going to put a ring on the finger I’m covering right now, and I’ve never been so eager to do anything.

“This is us, Palmer Girl. Just us. We’ve got this.”

Palmer squeezes my hand, holding tight before she loosens her grip. Then, she nods.

“We’ve got this.”