Page 38 of Curveball
He pushes up close to me. There’s nobody near, but he lowers his lips to murmur quietly into my ear.
“I want to bring you out here one night, in just the light of the tiki torches. Just you and me, no kids.”
I grin into the arm he’s pushed against my side. “I want that, too.” I pull away, move away slightly, because this is a lot.Heis a lot.
“All you need is a parrot in one of those huge cages and the theme would be complete.”
“We had one. His name was Steve.”
“Had?”
“He was, like, forty years old. They only live so long.”
I shake my head, a slow chuckle slipping out. “You are full of surprises, Max Murphy.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand, but then remember our kids and regretfully let go. Dylan may have teased me about having a boyfriend, but I’m not sure that’s what this is. Not yet. My gaze sweeps the area, searching for them.
The lawn of Max’s property is deep and level, with a slope off to the left that has to be fun to sled when there’s snow. I march out into the yard, keeping a slight distance when I want to attach myself to him like a barnacle becausewhat is this life, Palmer Sloan?I have been alone for so long, this sudden intensity is a bit overwhelming. No, nota bit. This intensityisoverwhelming.
Dylan and Natalie must be close; their shouts of laughter carry to us.
“Want to see more?”
Max comes up from behind but he doesn’t touch me. My contrary self wants to pout.
“I do. Where do you plan to have the tent set up?”
He pauses a moment as he surveys the area, then points straight ahead. “There. I think. I have the information from the event planner in here somewhere.” He taps a few buttons to unlock his phone, then searches through his apps. “I swear, if I couldn’t go back and reread emails, I’d be forced to walk around all day with a briefcase full of printouts.”
I feel this. Deeply. Because hadn’t I been scrolling back through his messages for a week?
“Aha!” He finds what he’s looking for and stops his search. “Yeah, right over there.” He points to the area he already indicated.
“Do you have details? What are we supposed to be helping with?”
His lips move as he scans through the rest of the email and recites the particulars in a monotone.
“Um. Thirty tables of eight. Cocktails scheduled for six o’clock. Dinner at seven. Choice of prime rib or chicken cordon bleu. Something I can’t pronounce for dessert. Orchestra and dance floor and two cash bars under the tent. A couple more outside. Jesus, this thing is, like, what? Only a month away?”
I tilt my head. “Time flies.”
“Fuck.”
“Look at the bright side. The evening should be cool, and bugs shouldn’t be a problem.”
He grunts.
“Your foundation is going to bank a boatload of money.”
He grunts again.
“You’re going to be more enthusiastic the night of the event, right?”
His lips quirk in a smile, and I get hung up on the memory of how the sight of them in photos made him feel closer. How they felt on my mouth at the fundraiser where I met him. I hadn’t been kissed for ages until that night. I could have just been hard up, but no. His lips were exceptional. They’restillexceptional.
And Jesus, can we just get back to the subject at hand?
I cock my head. “I hear the kids, but?—”
