The Closer: A Marriage of Convenience Romantic Comedy Read online

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, places, and companies is purely coincidental.

  First Line Editor: The Ryter’s Proof

  Second Line Editor: Fairest Reviews Editing Services

  Proofing: All Encompassing Books

  Cover Design: RBA Designs

  Cover Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography

  Formatting by: Champagne Book Design

  Copyright © 2021 by Kristy Marie

  Published by Kristy Marie Books, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Other books by Kristy Marie

  Acknowledgments

  For my husband.

  Every love story I write starts with you.

  Proverbs 31:11 NIV

  Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value.

  McKinley

  Once upon a time, in a not so far away land, lived a girl who… was three seconds away from shoving a sign up this jerk’s ass.

  “Swear to God, McKinley, if you don’t get back in the truck, I’m calling the cops.”

  Glaring at the offensive sign in Griffin’s yard, I slide my gaze to the asshole standing behind it, a cell phone clutched in his hand as a warning. “Go ahead, call them.”

  The bastard needn’t think I fear a little overnighter. Been there. Done that.

  “McKinley, be reasonable.” Chris, aka, the man who is about to taste dirt, sighs. “Do you think Griffin would want you behaving like this?”

  I think Griffin would be proud I contemplated killing his brother and didn’t. It shows an epic amount of restraint I once lacked.

  “Don’t act like you knew him,” I snap. “You abandoned him when he needed you the most!” When we needed him the most.

  Calm the rage, Mac. Calm. The. Rage. Chris isn’t worth the tears.

  “You’re right. I should have visited.” At least he has the balls to look ashamed. “But that doesn’t change the circumstances. Griffin is dead.”

  His point? Dead people don’t need houses, and the small ranch-style home that took Griffin two years to purchase is no longer my concern. “Can’t you just fix it up? Rent it out for a little while?” I can feel the sting in the back of my eyes, threatening to turn into tears.

  “No.”

  Just no. Not I’m sorry, but I can’t afford the upkeep, or it’s too much work between my family and job. Just no.

  “Please.” I try a softer tactic. “Just wait a little while longer.” Until it doesn’t hurt as bad. “This was his home.” And I drove him away.

  The moon shines down on the weathered roof, and I watch as Chris’s jaw hardens, all the issues he had with his little brother bubbling up in one hateful breath. “That’s right, his home! Not yours! You were merely a guest, on occasion, and a drain on my brother’s life. This is my house now, and I will do with it as I damn well please. Now get off my fucking property. We’re done here.”

  I don’t know if it was his tone or the actual words that shattered the last of my sanity, but I don’t hold back the battle cry when I charge the For Sale sign and kick it with all my might. Immediately, I fall to the ground with a face full of grass, reaching for my toe with a cry. “Ow. Ow. Ow!”

  Later, I’ll realize kicking anything while wearing flip-flops is a terrible idea.

  “Always a pleasure seeing you, Mac.” Chris turns away, fighting a grin. “See that you find your way out of the subdivision before you wake the neighbors. I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself further.”

  I won’t cry. Not in front of this prick.

  I’ve already cried enough these past few weeks. Losing my best friend has been difficult. Losing him after we had a heated argument has proven more than I can bear. But I refuse to let Dick Jagger here stop me from taking what’s rightfully mine. Griffin and I might not have been blood-related, but he was family. And like with any family, you develop memories. Memories I refuse to leave behind.

  Ignoring the throbbing in my toe, I stand and hobble toward the back fence. “I’m not leaving without my tree.”

  As if in slow motion, Chris turns, holding up his phone. “Whatever. You have until the cops get here.”

  That’s fine.

  “Let the cops know I’ll be in the garden shed.”

  Fucker.

  The cops can pull me from that rickety old building with spiders the size of chipmunks. It won’t be me screaming. Unlike Chris, Griffin and I were always hiding out in dark, dilapidated buildings. Spiders were the first thing I learned to get over.

  Chris shakes his head, a nasty sneer helping his face look more human and less asshole-robot. “I hope this is the last time I ever see you, McKinley.”

  I try to say something shittier, but my mouth fails. All I can do is watch as the boy I knew, who I secretly admired, closes the door, shutting me out of his life forever.

  You won’t cry. It doesn’t matter if your toe is swelling and it feels like it’s splitting in half. You’re going to walk to that garden shed, find a shovel in the dark, and dig up your palm tree. Because that’s all you have left of Griffin and the stitched-together family you once had.

  Nightmare of the Living Brother didn’t call the cops. I guess he had a heart after all. Just not one big enough to help me dig up. Psalms, the small palm tree Griffin gifted me on my last birthday.

  But you know what? Screw him.

  I have pain reliever at home and half a bottle of rum I snagged from the garden shed when Griffin asked me to hide the alcohol when he was doing one of those trendy cleanses.

  Me and my toe will be fine as soon as Lu and I make it home, which isn’t but twenty miles from Griffin’s. The problem is Lu, my 1950s truck, is a stubborn, old bird and thinks coasting to a stop in the middle of the exit ramp is a fun way to spend Friday night.

  “You know, Lu?” I muse, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, trying the engine again. “A little more to the right and we could’ve parked on the shoulder. You know, where broken-down vehicles are supposed to s
top. It’s a place where owners don’t get slammed into from behind.”

  Lu doesn’t answer because, well, she’s a truck, and this isn’t a Pixar film, and what would she even say? You’re welcome? Or that’s what you get for driving a truck Griffin used to kick and hit with the same wrench in your purse on a daily basis.

  Lu should have retired several years ago when I spent an entire month’s salary on her suspension. Griffin told me to buy something newer, but I couldn’t; Lu had been on many adventures with Griffin and me. We all had our issues, but we were a family. A family that dissolved into tears and accusations, leaving me alone, with no closure from my best friend.

  “All right, Lu,” I say aloud. “Have it your way.”

  Grabbing the metal wrench, I eye the flip-flops in the passenger seat. I could slip them over my swollen toe—help ensure I don’t add another injury to my list of pains, but the thought of even touching the now black and blue toe sends shock waves of pain through my spine.

  “I better not step on a nail, Lu,” I threaten the inanimate object. “If I do, I’m jamming it through your tire.” Which would be a stupid thing to do, but after the past two weeks, I don’t care. I’ll walk to work if I have to. I’m so over everything in my life going to shit. If slashing Lu’s tires makes me feel better, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

  Therapy comes in many forms. Personally, I enjoy taking my frustration out physically. Griffin called it crazy; I call it exercise. But it’s not like I run around wielding the wrench from my purse like a weapon. I don’t. Mostly, I’m a patient person. It takes a lot to ruffle me, but with Griffin dying like an asshole and Chris being an asshole, and my job being a pain in my ass, well… it’s all just been building toward one epic asshole-palooza that is my life.

  Sliding out of Lu, my toes touch the asphalt, and I let out the mother of all hisses. I’ll be the first to admit kicking that sign wasn’t my finest moment.

  Gingerly, I apply more weight on the likely broken toe. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just uncomfortable.

  And I’m completely lying…

  Currently, my big toe throbs like a penis at a porn convention, but finally, after a lot of weight shifting, I’m standing on both feet, nodding like I didn’t just use six different variations of the F-word.

  But that’s beside the point. The point is I only swore and didn’t beat Lu’s fender with the wrench tucked into the waistband of my shorts like I wanted.

  Lu better be grateful for my self-control and optimism.

  And optimism, at the moment, is me moving Lu on my own to the emergency lane. A foot (or five) from where she’s currently parked. Easy peasy.

  Turning back to Lu, I knock the gear into neutral and pray the tires don’t roll while I hobble to the back and place my palms on the tailgate, which looks amazing with the contrasting dirt under my fingernails. Again, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is I got what I came for. Psalms. (Smacking Chris was on my list for a hot minute, but I’ll save it for another time, like his birthday.)

  Channeling all my hate, pain, and aggravation from tonight, I shove against Lu’s scratched tailgate.

  She moves all of a centimeter.

  “Come on, Lu. Show some mercy.” I drop my head, allowing the slight sting of the metal to clear the tears threatening to fall.

  Breathe, just breathe and move. You’re fine.

  I nod, chanting to myself that I can breathe. I can move on—alone, without the person who mattered most.

  I can do it.

  I can totally move this truck when my toe feels like it’s on fire.

  Lifting my head, I drag in one last breath before giving Lu another firm shove, this time with more force and a battle cry (because that helped last time). “Move, you stubborn bat!”

  Lu’s tires roll. “That’s a girl, Lu. Keep going. Keep—”

  But then sudden flashes of light and screeching tires silence my cheers as I brace for impact.

  Cooper

  “An intervention? Really?”

  At some point, my brother thought it’d be nice to utilize his spare key and take a shit on the remaining hours of my day by camping out on my couch and annoying me with a lecture.

  “You weren’t answering our calls.” The statement rolls off his tongue casually, like he just walked next door and didn’t board a plane, flying across the country with his pregnant wife and my agent in tow.

  “I was busy. I didn’t think a few missed calls would cause you to get all up in your feelings.”

  A sinister smirk meant to cower lesser men crosses Maverick’s face while rolling up his sleeves, as if readying for a fight. He isn’t, though. My older brother is simply getting comfortable on my fucking couch, enjoying the verbal sparring.

  “Come on, Coop.” Aspen, my agent since high school, sighs. “This is a safe space.”

  “No,” I correct, “this is an ambush.”

  Snorting comes from the sofa. “We could have saved ourselves the jet lag if you’d just returned our texts, calls, emails—Should I go on?”

  I’d like very much for him to “go on” back to his home in Georgia, but since his posture screams he won’t settle for anything less than a long conversation and a hug, I fear that may not happen as quickly as I would like.

  With the grace of my seventy-six-year-old grandfather, I fall into the chair, stretching my legs out in front. “Say what you need so you can catch the next flight out.”

  On a good day, I’m not so much of an asshole and more antisocial, but getting a lecture from my older brother and agent at twenty-three years old would put anyone in a pissy mood.

  “Great.” My brother is apparently going first in the circle of bullshit. “What were you thinking?”

  This question would bring out the immaturity in anyone. Luckily for my brother, I refrain from speaking, instead, reaching over and snatching the straw from Aspen’s cup. “What are you doing?”

  The metal save-the-turtle straw rolls between my fingers as I meet my brother’s stare. “I’m making this torture bearable by jamming this straw into my eardrum.”

  It’d be less painful than enduring them nag in-person. I can handle the hateful text messages, but this, showing up unannounced… that’s a no.

  Aspen yanks the straw from my grip and tosses it behind her where my eyes follow.

  “Pops will trip and fall,” I note dryly.

  Aspen and Maverick might think I was acting reckless, but I wasn’t.

  “I promised I would take care of him,” I bite out at my brother as Aspen retrieves the straw and tucks it into her purse. “I made one mistake.”

  “A mistake that could have gotten you killed!” Unlike the relaxed nature of my brother, Aspen always brings the passion, even if I’d rather she just send a text with a million exclamation marks like my sister-in-law, who is currently out with Pops getting ice cream while her husband and Aspen nag me about one fucking mistake from a week ago.

  “It won’t happen again.”

  I don’t feel the need to explain or even make them feel better by coming up with an elaborate excuse. The bottom line is it happened, I was irresponsible, and I’ve since fixed the issue.

  “You can’t make a promise like that.”

  Exhaling, I drop my head, reading the line inked on the inside of my forearm as a reminder. My power is perfected in weakness. “You’re right, Asp. I can’t make that promise, but I can assure you that Pops and I are fine, and we’re both getting more rest.”

  Maverick’s jaw clenches. “Ainsley and I would love to see Pops more often.”

  Leaning back and settling in for yet another long debate, I raise one leg and rest it on a knee. “Then visit more. No one says you have to limit visits to holidays.”

  That’s not quite true. Maverick and Ainsley visit more than a few times a year, but he’s not about to make me feel guilty about moving Pops clear across the country.

  “Don’t play with me, little brother. You know what I mean. You’re in the pri
me of your life—”

  “Yes!” Aspen chimes in. “I’m fielding trade offers daily. Think about your future, Cooper.”

  I am. “My future is here in Nevada with Pops.”

  Maverick blows out an exasperated breath, raking a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. “It’s my turn to look after him, Cooper.” His voice is edgy. He’s losing his patience, which means absolutely nothing to me. Maverick might be my big brother, but my ruler, he is not.

  “Pops isn’t a merry-go-round, Mav. You don’t get a turn. He’s happy here. I’m not shipping him back to Georgia just because you both think I can’t handle my career and Pops at the same time.”

  “That’s not what we think at all.” Aspen’s voice is calm as she tries to diffuse the tension between Maverick and me. “We know you can take care of Pops. You’ve been doing it all your life. But what your brother is trying to say is that he wants to help you. We both do.”

  What she’s politely explaining is that they want me to focus on my career and live the bachelor life of a Major League pitcher.

  Inhaling, I take a sip of my water on the table, contemplating my next words. Their concern comes from a good place. “I appreciate the offer,” I respond, directing my words to both of them. “But we’re fine.”

  “You fell asleep at the wheel and crashed your car!” Maverick snaps, and I’m underwhelmed. “I wouldn’t call that fine.” He spits the last word like it disgusts him to say it.

  I shrug my shoulders, admittedly a little sore from last week’s accident. “I wasn’t hurt.”

  Neither was the ditch I finally crashed in.

  My brother snorts. “So you’re saying you blew that game last night for shits and giggles?”

  “Can I not have an off day?”

  “No. Mediocre pitchers have an off day. The Closer doesn’t.”

  The Closer.

  It’s a name I haven’t been able to shake. A few years ago, when I started my career in the Majors, I basked in the intimidation the name carried. Now, though, the stress of living up to a reputation I created years ago feels like a noose around my neck, smothering me breath by breath.