Page 41 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

How are we ever going to make this believable?

Max can tell something is wrong—that I am off . He’s probably worrying that I’m having second thoughts about him , but that’s not what’s cultivating this ball of anxiety clawing at my stomach.

It’s more like the fuck am I doing to him .

. . and his poor family? What right do I have to involve him in my problems with Alex’s father?

It shouldn’t matter that Max pretty much dove in like a superhero coming to save the damsel as soon as he heard what Alejandro’s trying to coerce me into.

I’m a grown woman who’s stood up for myself for all these years.

I can solve my own problems without the help of Captain America and his never-ending abs.

Max seems calm and assured, even as I stand beside him with my hands shaking like we’re enduring Arctic conditions. I pull a tissue to my face and dab at my damp eyes. My nerves are out of control.

At my side, he raises a finger, and Clarissa gives him a look, but he leans in and tickles my neck when he whispers in my ear. I’m taking deep breaths to keep those claws from digging too deeply, and his words barely register.

It’s something about a dream wedding, and do I still want to do it.

I respond with a nonspecific, “Yeah,” because what the hell was the question? It seems to placate him.

He puts his hand on my arm and I feel protected, and respected, and safe. And when his calloused palm slides down my skin and covers the back of my hand, I understand that I can be strong, yet not have to shoulder the burden of my fears on my own.

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

His words are bursting with self-assurance.

They are exactly what I need to convince me—this marriage may not be real, it may end sooner than any bride and groom ever intend.

But this is what works for us. I wrap my fingers around his, clutch them tight in mine, and let his quiet strength ooze into me.

I squeeze them for a heartbeat before I let go, and Max visibly relaxes.

I nod. He is here for me, standing by so I can be strong and independent.

Ready to give me a boost when my load gets heavy.

“We’ve got this,” I respond, because I want to believe it’s true.

Clarissa clears her throat, and I guess there are other couples waiting to get married before the court closes at five.

She’s already given us an overview of the ceremony.

I imagine, right now is when she’d welcome everyone and announce that the reason we’re here is to unite this couple.

But we’re the only ones present, and we already know why we’re here.

It’s the reason we’re present. She motions us to stand face-to-face, and moves on to the good part.

“Do you, Palmer Sloan, take Maxim Murphy to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

When pressed, Max one day admitted that Max isn’t his full name, and only his Granny Murphy is allowed to call him by his given name.

“I do,” I respond, and if Max doesn’t see the gleam in my eye, he needs to pay attention. Because Granny Murphy has company.

“And do you, Maxim Murphy, take Palmer Sloan as your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” he says without hesitation, though he definitely throws me the watch it or pay vibe when I give him a sweet smile.

But to tease him about Maxim? I’m willing to take my chances.

We don’t have personalized vows. I didn’t even think of it till right now.

Did Max want to do that? Are they even appropriate given our .

. . situation? Clarissa moves right along with the standard text, and we each promise to cherish, honor, love, and forsake all others.

Pretty sure I’m covered all around, but I’m reaching if I think Max is fully on board. But maybe we only need time.

Clarissa flips to another screen in the tablet she’s holding and asks if there are rings.

“No rings,” I say, at the same time Max releases my hand to dig into his pocket. He comes out with what looks like a miniature baseball. He flicks open the ball and my eyes go wide. It’s a jewelry box. And inside?—

“Max!” I hiss at him, and I don’t even know why. Except the ring is huge . And unexpected. And also, when did he find time to get that?

But he’s not paying attention at all to my minor freak-out caused because I don’t have one for him, too . He winks at me, then supports my hand with his and recites the token and pledge words that Clarissa gives him but I barely comprehend.

The ring is heavy when he slides it on, and my hand dips into his from the unexpected weight of it.

He catches me easily by my fingertips, and I curl mine around his, the ring sparkling despite the flickering overhead fluorescents.

My hand raises when he lifts it higher, bringing it to his lips and lingering there, kissing the knuckle of each finger.

His eyes watch me intently, and my gaze never leaves his.

I’d love to loiter in this moment, but there Clarissa goes again, clearing her throat to get this wedding back on track.

Others are waiting their turn out on the hard wooden chairs in the hallway.

She pronounces us married, Max kisses me soundly before she even delivers that part of her routine, and we all sign the certificate that binds us in a legal contract.

Max smiles so broadly as he scratches his name on the document, that his dimple dents his cheek.

Maybe one day, he’ll think of our arrangement as more than something he did to help a friend out of a jam.

Or, at least, he won’t regret whatever time he spends married to me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, as he opens the door of his Escalade and I climb in.

The list of what I’m grateful for is endless, and a conversation we’ll be having soon.

I extend my left arm and turn my wrist this way and that, admiring my new ring.

“You obviously gave the details more thought than I did.”

“I called my jeweler and told him what I wanted. Then, I picked it up on my way to collect you from school.”

He has a jeweler.

“We didn’t talk about telling everyone, especially until after we tell our kids.

This is a pretty big rock you picked out.

Going to be hard to hide.” To prove my point, I tuck my hand under my thigh.

The ring digs into my skin, though, so I pull it out and lay it on my skirt.

Max has been glancing over, tracking my movements as he drives out of the city.

“There’s no need to hide the damn thing. You’re my wife.”

There’s a growl of what sounds like possessiveness in his words, and I’m not sure what to do with that. He did not sound like a man who just entered into a fake marriage, no matter how legal it is. Nope, he did not at all .

“Well, if you want me to wear this all the time, will you wear one, too? Do you want to come with me to pick one out, or do you trust me to find one you’ll like?”

He stretches across the console, his forearm flexing when he reaches for me and grasps my hand. The hand that’s wearing his big-ass ring.

“You can buy me one if you like, but I have an appointment for a tattoo tomorrow afternoon. I thought you might like to come with me when I do that.”

“A tattoo? That’s pretty permanent.”

What the hell is he thinking?

“Sure, but I can’t wear a ring when I play, and I’m playing, one way or another, for most of the year.

Here, check it out. I came up with a great idea for the design, so I drew it out.

” He digs into his jacket pocket and passes me a business card for a tattoo studio.

“No, flip it over,” he instructs, and I do that.

“Oh, this design looks nice. I like how it looks both modern and masculine.”

“Look again,” he directs, but he’s smiling, as though he has a secret. “Now, what do you see?”

I pull it closer, inspect the design sketched on the card.

“Oh, Max!”

His attention stays on the highway and the late afternoon traffic as I examine his work, and it is .

. . detailed . Like, it’s our details—both of our initials and today’s date fashioned in a design that, at first glance, seems simple.

But now that I know how inspired it is, there’s absolutely nothing simple about it.

“Your design is so creative. I love it. But you won’t ever be able to take it off. What if?—”

He exits the freeway, already shaking his head, his hands wrapped around the black leather of the steering wheel and his gaze focused forward, as if he’s afraid to see what’s on my face.

“Don’t plan to take it off, Palmer Girl. Not ever.”

My features soften, and so does my heart.

Talk about the weirdest wedding day ever. Go to work like it’s any other Monday, pop off to the courthouse to say a few words and get a paper signed, then scoot on over to a welcome party, that also happens to be a baby shower, for one of your brand-new husband’s teammates. This is not normal .

Yet here I am, holding hands and chatting with a star pitcher from the home team, striding up to the massive front door of yet another oversized home in the city I used to consider my escape.

Noise from the crowd of partygoers travels through the house and from the back yard, and the aroma of meat on the barbeque grill is enticing.

There will be no privacy and zero anonymity once I step through that beautiful door.

It’s crafted of glass and wrought iron, like they have nothing to hide .

. . and I envy that. I’ve got enough for all of us.

Max doesn’t even bother ringing the doorbell—nobody would hear us anyway—just opens the heavy door like he visits rock stars’ homes on a regular basis. For all I know, maybe he does.

“You okay?” he asks when I hesitate at the doorway.

I smile— c’mon Palmer, you’ve got this— and take another step.

“As I’ll ever be.”