Page 51 of Curveball
I nod. I understand exactly. I got carried away, too. He just . . .
I drop my head back to land against the firmness of his collarbone.
“Our kids are here, Max. Jesus, I’m your daughter’s teacher. What kind of example are we setting?”
“Youwereher teacher. School’s over.”
I tip my head back to peer up into his normally brilliant blue eyes. They’re cloudy, the expression in them somewhere between curiosity and concern.
“You planning to transfer schools next year?” We both know that’s the only way she won’t be in my class again. I’m the only one who teaches math at the advanced level.
He sighs, a frustrated hum escaping with the slight gust of breath against my cheek.
I turn in his arms. The rise in his pants has deflated, leaving me both grateful and full of regret. My gaze lifts to meet his. His irises have cleared and his eyes are sparkling.Damn, he’s so pretty.
I match the relaxed casualness of his expression, then add a mock pout.
“It’s really a shame, you know. But at least we’re finally not at each other’s throats. It’s nice to have a parent from school to be friends with.”
He pushes me back and I get a better view of how his brow scrunches.
“So, why is that a shame?”
“You really don’t get it?”
“Palmer,” he grinds out in warning, and I can’t help but smile.
“Because you’re such a good kisser.”
He rasps out a laugh and pulls me close for a hard hug.
“This isn’t over, Palmer Girl. One day soon, I’ll let you kiss me again,” he says with mock seriousness, and now, it’s my turn to laugh.
“All right, bad boy. You keep telling yourself that.”
We’ve been settledback in our loungers for a few minutes, the bottles of cold water we grabbed on our way through the kitchen wet with condensation on the small table between us. We also stopped to listen at the door to the basement, and those two were still going at it as though their teams were lifelong rivals vying for championship rings. Max just bobbed his eyebrows at me.
“You sure you don’t want to go back upstairs?”
That wasexactlywhat I wanted to do. But that’s not how aresponsiblemother would act, so I gave his chest a playful shove and stepped around him to go outside. No doubt, I’ll regret my decision, and this horny mama will be going home and taking Mike off the charger.
Since Max’snext series of games will be played at their home field, he is able to spend the entire night at home, and after the passion and emotional upheaval of our kiss finally dwindles, we’re mindlessly chatting about our summer vacation plans. I gingerly avoid telling him there’s no budget for Dylan and me to travel further than Dollywood—especially after he casually mentions he’s been planning a trip to Paris for himself and his daughter after she returns from a trip with her grandmother.
“Wow,” I say. I’m not jealous . . . like, at all. Who needs to navigate those ridiculous crowds just to view a few pieces of art? “You will have such an amazing time exploring the city together.”
“Is it on your bucket list? You should go sometime.”
“Someday,” I agree vaguely, and ask for details of the trip Adele and Natalie have planned.
The sun is lowering over the back fence line, and I’m contemplating scraping myself off the chair and taking my son home, when Max’s phone pings with a notification.
“What now?” he murmurs idly as he flips the phone up to show the screen. “I don’t normally receive sound notifications for emails, but this is an account Flynn’s office set up for Google alerts.” He must mistake my disquiet for confusion because he goes on to say, “Google alerts. You know, online content that mentions me by name.”
“Yes, I know what it is. No mansplaining required.”
I have them activated, too. They’ve been pretty quiet the past several years, but from time to time, some rookie reporter eager to make a splash dredges up an old story about Alex and lays out the carrion for vultures to pick through. When the pizza video dropped, and Max didn’t mention it—and my alerts were quiet—so I figured it didn’t make any kind of impact.
He doesn’t respond, or react. In fact, I wonder if he even hears me, he’s so intent on scrolling through the email, and then clicking some link. His face becomes a stormy mask of fury, and he surges to his feet.
