Page 4 of Curveball
Intrigued doesn’t begin to cover the way I feel right about now. The loud buzz of conversation echoes all around us, but the discussion at the next table has my rapt attention and I’m fully alert, paying zero mind to the zingers being hurled around our own table like third out attempts from short to first. Samson tosses another joke my way and my temper spikes at the intrusion. I absentmindedly catch his ridiculousness and lob back a quipped response, but I’ve lost all interest in the antics going on here.
I tear my gaze back to the girls. Just give me a minute to come up with an excuse to visit their table and . . . and . . .Fuck!She’s not there anymore. She’s gone! I whip my head around to find her.
The noise level at my table rises and I’m vaguely aware of a barrage of questions coming from the guys. Those questions are easy enough to ignore. One word breaks through my concentration, though, and that’scameras. Not only is Cheyenne on duty, but the press follows us every-fucking-where, and even when we catch a moment that seems like privacy, overeager podcasters and influencers are there with their cell phones.
I resume my place—and my chill—before I’m aTMZclip tomorrow, captioned by an ambitious staff writer with a pithy comment undoubtedly meant as clickbait. Something likeWhat did the old guy lose this time?
With my gut twisted in a knot I have a hard time understanding—and certainly don’t want to explain—I peer around for a sign of her. I don’t see her at the exit, or at the nearest bar. I turn the other way and catch a glimpse of sparklingnavy blue. She’s walking toward a short hallway across the room, where the restrooms are located. Something about the idea of meeting this girl seems destined. This time, when I turn from the table to follow her, I’m focused, and going with my gut.
The area is isolated. Quiet. No wannabe sports journalist lying in wait. I can work with that.
Chapter 2
Palmer Sloan
The last of my tequila buzz has unfortunately dissipated. By the time I wash my hands and reapply lip gloss in the elegant bathroom mirror of the nicest hotel I’ve ever stepped foot in, the fuzziness in my head is gone. It really is a shame; I could use a little cocktail courage to numb the flutters in my belly and calm the jittery nerves causing this underarm dampness situation.
What the hell were you thinking? You know better than to accept a dare from Priya!
I blame the third pink martini.Or maybe it was the fourth?At some point, I lost count. Though, ironically, in order for them to succeed in their mission, I needed for them to be stronger.
So, how do I get out of this pickle?
Come on, Palmer, the real question is how do you bail without Priya giving your failure to perform the starring role in every brunchtime conversation from now till Christmas.
My inner self has always been way too practical, but she’s hopeless at problem solving. Any minute now, I expect Priyato knock politely on the bathroom door—because even wasted, she’s gracious—asking sweetly if I’ve come up with a plan.
No, Priya, I have not come up with a plan for completely embarrassing myself while somehow maintaining that last shred of self-respect. But if you have an idea, I’m all ears.
I kind of like the snarky bitch occupying my current thoughts, but she’s no real help either.
There are so many voices in my head that the two light thumps on the door to the hallway startle me, and in the process of spinning to face the noise, I somehow manage to dump my purse into the sink. Because of course I do.
“Hey, Priya, I’ll be right out!”
“Not Priya.”
I cock my head. No, that low rumbly voice was definitelynotPriya. It was unbelievably arousing—like the baritone timbre of my favorite male book narrator—but not the friend I left waiting at a table a short walk from here. The man’s deep grumble vibrates in my belly.
“Give me a minute!” I yell out to Not Priya, then shove everything back in my purse and rush to swing open the door.
Where I discover the most panty-scorching voice I’ve ever heard outside my earbuds belongs to my bad boy savior who kept me from falling flat on my face. Well, notmybad boy—and no boy at all, actually. Nope, this vision in thigh-snugging slacks and sleeves rolled to his elbows isallman.
Here I am, standing in the bathroom doorway with my arms stretched wide, one holding the door open and the other clutching the painted jamb and my satin wristlet. There’s probably a good amount of cleavage straining to pop free at the front of my dress but I’m afraid to look.
Now that he’s leaning against the wall right in front of me, I can see the man who rescued me from the back of the limo—and then took the table beside ours—has bright blue eyes and full, yetstillunsmiling, lips. It’s more than a little distracting. I should say something. Do something. I’m frozen in place.
He clears his throat.
“You about done?” His well-defined lips are still flat, but this time, there’s a bit of humor in his growl.
My eyes shoot up to meet his, and they’re not exactly smiling either, but the outside edges crinkle slightly.
“Done?” My eyelids slide closed. Yes, that squeak came from between my lips.
When I reopen my eyes, the bad boy has straightened with his arms folded across his chest. And dear lord, that tattoo. There’s a baseball glove holding a pocket watch and all manner of smaller designs intertwined, and the entire thing wraps around his forearm. I fight the urge to reach out and trace it. With my finger. Or my tongue.
“Done objectifying me.” He raises his brow, but even without offering a smile, he seems more amused than annoyed.
