Page 80 of Curveball
Not gonna lie, I’ve wondered what it would be like toactuallybe engaged to Max. But only in that,never really gonna happen butwhat if I won the Powerballkind of way. But to plan on it? No.
“Yes, I mean for real. No more fake engagement bullshit. No more keeping it on the down low. I want it to be the main event in our next presser.”
“But what . . .”
I stop mid-sentence. I don’t even know what question to ask.
“Max, we can’t just . . .”
I am spinning. I can feel the actual whirling of my brain cells. President of Overthinkers’ Anonymous, right here. Another membership card for my collection. Why is it I have to consider and contemplate every side of an idea until I’ve turned it inside out and backwards? Max is patiently waiting for me to process, when most men I know would have long ago told me what I’m feeling or how to act about it.
“Yeah, babe, we can.”
He’s freaking serious about this.
“Okay, so . . . actually holding a wedding—I can see the advantage. But what about the rest?”
Like, how do we address the vow to love?It’s as though we’re playing a strategy game but important pieces are missing.
He lets out a slow breath from between his lips. Rubs his knuckle over his forehead, and then down the scruff on his chin. It’s an effective distraction, if that’s what he’s aiming for. The insides of my thighs are still pink from that beard.
“Damn it, Max, there you go again.” I stamp my foot like a four-year-old, and he sucks back a grin. “You make my damn head spin.”
He glances at the clock on the nightstand, and my gaze follows his. He should probably leave soon, get to the field to eat before he’s due in the training room.
“No head spinning, Palmer Girl. We got this.” He slides a curl off my face and lets his hand caress my scalp. “What are the thoughts rolling around in here?”
I lean into his touch, and it’s gentle, and sweet. It’s no girl’s dream to calculate the reasons for a marriage without deep emotion. Well, unless you’re royalty, maybe. Or the mob. I toss my head back and squeeze my eyes shut.
“All the things,” I say. It comes out as a wail, though, because apparently, I really am four. His hand rushes to cover his mouth, but not before I spot his dimple. Damn him, he’senjoyingthis.
“All right, then. Itemize them. Give me a list.”
Doesn’t he understand what a bad idea that is? Why would I want to name my worries, just so we can dissect them? I’m not responsible for any fallout.
If I had a whiteboard, I could make a hell of a presentation. Since it’s just me and my fingers here today, I hold one up foreach item as I say it out loud. The first ones are obvious and come out in a rush.
“Number one, is this the right thing to do? Number two, will Dylan be okay with it?Number three, what about Natalie?”
He opens his mouth as if to interrupt, and I cut him off.
“Nope, let me finish, then we’ll discuss them all.”
“All right.” He nods his agreement, and I lift my hand to continue counting.
“Okay, we’re on number . . .”
“Four.”
“Four, right. Thank you.” I spread four fingers and tuck my thumb into my palm. “Number four is Adele. Max, this affects a lot of people.”
“Palmer, this is only about you, and me. Everyone else will be on board. What’s number five?”
I’m not sure how I feel about his absolute certainty. I release my thumb and starfish my fingers.
“What do I do with my house? It’s cute and I like it.”
He tips his head to the side and gives me side-eye, as though this concern is valid but not life-altering, and shouldn’t be a factor. He might be right, but still.
