Page 83 of Curveball
Me: Can’t wait to see you.
I’m going to hell for lying.
Chapter 27
Max
It’s dark by the time I pull into Palmer’s driveway. I shut off the engine of my Escalade and can’t hold back my yawn. Days like today—afternoon game, flight home, late night?Brutal. The silver lining? She’s asleep in the seat to the right of me.
I unbuckle so I can stretch across the console and kiss her awake. It takes a minute, but her eyes finally flutter open. By the time I have her stuff unloaded from the back of my SUV, she’s standing in the driveway, stretching and yawning.
“Good thinking, leaving a light on,” I say as we climb the steps to her front door. I set her bags down and line them up nearby.
She glances up at the fixture, then quickly away, squinting from its brightness.
“Everything outside has dusk-to-dawn lighting and motion sensors.” Her keys are in her hand, jingling as she separates the one that opens the door.
“Smart.”
I give her what I hope is a wise-looking nod, meant to demonstrate how impressed I am. I’m waiting for her to call bullshit becauseI know nothing about home improvement.
“Well, you know. A woman on her own . . .” Her words cut off, and she ends them with a shrug.
Yeah, I’ll be talking to my handyman about these sensor thingies.
“Yeah. Good idea.”
It’s been eighteen hours since I’ve been inside this woman, twelve since I asked her to be my wife. Why we’re sharing small talk like I’m dropping off a grocery delivery instead of luggage from a three-day fuckfest, is beyond me. Give me a three-two count with bases loaded and fucking Ohtani at the plate, and I’m a stone-cold master of the universe. Palmer with her makeup gone and blue smudges under her eyes from following my ass around all day, and all I know is I need to make it better.
The lock clicks and she pushes the door wide. I roll her cases inside and take a look around. Memories assault me of the last time I stood right here, and didn’t notice more than her in a robe slipping off one shoulder. It wasn’t a minute before I was carrying her to bed.
Second door on the right.
I look down the dark hallway, following that path with my eyes. Palmer kicks her shoes off and they slide into the baseboard. She moves away and speaks up from behind me.
“So, I know it’s late, but do you want to come in, get something to eat or drink maybe? It’s been a day.”
Her invitation is lackluster. We’re both tired and I’m on my way to moody, but I do. I do want to come in. I need to end this day, and this weekend, well. And I need my hands on her.
“Sure, thanks. Maybe something cold to drink?” I take a step into the living room. I didn’t get much of an impression before when I was here, but I notice it now.
“Your house looks like you,” I say, loudly, so she can hear me in the kitchen. Her house has a nice, open floor plan, but the rooms aren’t tiny.
“Like me? You mean, kinky?” She peers at me over her shoulder with a weary smile, holding out a lock of her hair, stretching out the curl and then letting it go.
Her playfulness is lowkey but it isn’t forced. I grin at her humor.
A cupboard door bangs shut and ice tinkles as it’s dropped into glasses. A drawer slides open and there’s a clatter of silverware before it slides shut.
“No, like, friendly. And comfortable.” I practically moan that last part as I dig myself deeper into her cushioned sofa. “I can see why you’d miss living here.”
“Yeah, I think I might,” she calls back. “Buying it was the first truly independent thing I did when I moved to Tennessee.”
She comes back with two tall glasses of iced tea, holding one out to me.
“It’s decaf,” she says, and after a heartbeat, follows it directly with, “I’d miss you more if I stay.”
I take my glass from her but it takes my sluggish brain way too long to compute what she just said.
