Page 85 of Curveball
“I pulled this from my closet, since I had virtually no time to shop. I think it looks bridal enough, but not so much that everyone at Gunnar’s party will give us the third degree.”
I’m in one of the suits I wear on game days, charcoal with a hairline stripe. Nice enough, but I wouldn’t describe it asbridal. I open the passenger side door of the SUV and help her climb in. I lean in and almost kiss her, but pull back before I give myself away. We’ve been fucking every night, and for the last few days, during the daylight hours, too. But this marriage isn’t real. It isn’t two people madly in love. This is convenient.
Until I make her change her mind.
“You look perfect, babe. Mission accomplished.” Her features smooth out, as though in relief. As though I said the right thing to calm her nerves. I lean in anyway, put my mouth to her ear and whisper, “I can’t wait to peel it off.”
She’s got a mischievous, shit-eating grin on her face when she grabs my tie and flops back in the seat, yanking me close to her so her breath tickles my cheek when she whispers back, “Mission accomplished.”
Hell, yeah.
The processof getting married at the county courthouse is unbelievably simple. We provide a few government documents to a surly clerk in an upstairs cubicle. He’s ironically named Chad, and he exchanges them for a marriage license good for thirty days.
I made arrangements for an immediate ceremony, so we’re shown to a line of sturdy wooden chairs in the drafty hallway and instructed to wait. People wander past from the left and the right, and stop for directions to the tax department, the recorder, the DMV, like I’m Google Maps. I direct them all back downstairs to Reception.
The couple that followed us into the clerk’s office for a marriage license comes back out, and the woman is crying. I squirm a little because, if I hadn’t decided to scroll my phone a little before hopping out of bed, I wouldn’t have learned we needed an appointment for the actual ceremony. My next act was to make a call and maybe promise seats behind home plate to Carla Jean, the woman who was so helpful, and apparently, occupies the workstation next to Chad; I noticed her name plate on the counter. Could be she told him of her windfall and that’s the root of his disagreeable attitude. Doesn’t matter to me who answered the phone; I’m just glad it’s not Palmer crying today.
I squirm again, this time, to get comfortable. These chairs are solid oak and have to be original to the historic building. They aren’t exactly comfortable. Or designed for someone with legs as long as mine. I stand to let them stretch, and lean my shoulder against the wall, and a different clerk soon steps into the hall and yells out, “Sloan-Murphy?”
I push off the wall and run my hand down my tie and over my trimmed beard, and, out of habit, check my shoelaces. Occupational hazard, but loose laces tend to cause injury on the field.
Palmer gets to her feet beside me, the light, filmy skirt of her outfit floating around her calves as she takes a halting step or two, then breaks stride with a pinched smile, and reaches back for my hand. Girl seemsnervous, though I don’t know what’s changed. We were fine this morning.Weren’t we?
The chamber we are led to looks a whole lot like a courtroom, complete with a platform where a judge would sit, two sturdy tables for the lawyers, that must have been purchased as a set with the chairs we just abandoned, and a rail to separate them from the rows of long spectator pews.
We’re ushered through the swinging gate at the barrier and meet the woman who’ll be officiating our ceremony. She introduces herself as Clarissa Davies and gives us a basic rundown of what’s about to happen. Palmer watches her intently, while my brain screamsGet on with it. Hell, we’ve all been to weddings before. We know what to expect. It seems forever before we all take our places.
My heart rate increases while Ms. Davies is speaking, while we all shuffle into position, and a trickle of sweat tickles the back of my neck as it slides down into my collar. I reach up and rub at the spot.
Palmer appears calm, until I look more closely. The tissue in her hands is fluttering and her eyes are glassy. What is she thinking about? Worrying about? Is it because the ceremony is so small, almost secret? Because Dylan isn’t here? I raise a finger, signaling Davies to give us a moment, and step closer to speak into Palmer’s ear.
“Look, I know this isn’t every woman’s dream wedding, but?—”
She shakes her head.
“No, that’s not it.” She smiles quick, and then it’s gone, and it’s the least authentic I’ve ever seen her act.
“You still want to do this?” I ask, and the simple act of saying the words makes me realize how much I want this. What if she’s changed her mind and says no?
She straightens her shoulders and tips up her chin. Her lips are flat. “Yeah.”
My relief is so great, I can’t keep from touching her, so I reach for her, give the soft warm skin of her forearm a squeeze, then let my hand drift down to cover hers. In a moment, I’m going to put a ring on the finger I’m covering right now, and I’ve never been so eager to do anything.
“This is us, Palmer Girl. Just us. We’ve got this.”
Palmer squeezes my hand, holding tight before she loosens her grip. Then, she nods.
“We’ve got this.”
Chapter 28
Palmer
How are we ever going to make this believable?
Max can tell something is wrong—that I amoff. He’s probably worrying that I’m having second thoughts abouthim, but that’s not what’s cultivating this ball of anxiety clawing at my stomach.
It’s more likethe fuck am I doing to him . . . and his poor family?What right do I have to involve him in my problems with Alex’s father? It shouldn’t matter that Max pretty much dove in like a superhero coming to save the damsel as soon as he heard what Alejandro’s trying to coerce me into. I’m a grown woman who’s stood up for myself for all these years. I can solve my own problems without the help of Captain America and his never-ending abs.
