For Pete's Sake: An Enemies to Lovers Marriage of Convenience Standalone Romance Novel (Tobin Tribe Book 1)
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FOR PETE’S SAKE
Tobin Tribe Book 1
Caitlyn Coakley
Table of Contents
Title Page
About For Pete’s Sake
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
About For Pete’s Sake
ETHAN WEBB, PHILADELPHIA’S most notorious and hated personal injury attorney, cares about exactly three things: his sister, his newborn nephew, Pete, and his law practice.
Embattled CEO and newly widowed Stephanie Kerrigan also cares about exactly three things: keeping control of the family business that her board of directors is hellbent on taking away from her, having a baby, and winning the lawsuit Ethan Webb has filed against her.
What was Stephanie’s crime? Being married to Pete’s scumbag father.
After spending less than an hour with her, what possible reason could Ethan have to suddenly ask Stephanie to marry him?
And why in the world would she agree?
That’s easy: extreme mutual need. Besides, it’s only for a few weeks. There’s no need for it to get complicated.
Until it does.
For Pete’s Sake © 2020 Caitlyn Coakley
Published by Love Knot
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Cover Design by Cover Couture
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Photo © Shutterstock/Ruslan Galiullin
Photo © Shutterstock/Preecha Juntapin
Edited by Margo Bond Collins
Beta Readers Shari Jahn and Teresa Hild
To Daddy without whom none of this would have been possible. Rest in paradise. I love you and I miss you.
To Dan for putting up with my crazy all of these years. Thanks for not divorcing me. Or killing me.
CHAPTER 1
STEPHANIE KERRIGAN’S heels sank into the rain-sodden ground. She didn’t care; she’d never wear the shoes again. Or the dress. With her pale complexion, black was so not her color. She should burn the damn things. Was having them ready and waiting in her closet an open invitation to the Angel of Death? With two car crashes and three funerals in less than a year, it was almost as if the dude had frequent flier miles about to expire.
Bowing her head, she lifted a tissue to her nose to cover the renegade smile her inappropriate thought had conjured.
The people surrounding her to support her in her time of need, or at least pretending to, wouldn’t understand her need to find a sliver of humor in the Greek tragedy her life had become. Or else they would think she had cracked from the stress. Either way, the fossils on her board of directors would find some way to spin it to her disadvantage and use it to take the only thing she had left: the family business.
She would do whatever she had to do to keep it. She would cling to it with bloodied, broken fingers, clawing with her last burst of strength. She would make a deal with the devil if that’s what it took. She would hold on or die trying.
Her chin trembled as her gaze settled on the two unmarked graves to her left. It would be a few more months before the ground settled enough for the monuments to be erected on her parents’ graves. I miss you guys. She rubbed her fist against her chest as if she could massage the pain away.
A sudden gust of wind sent blossoms from a nearby magnolia tree skittering along the ground; a cold rain slanted across her face. She didn’t care about that either. Most of her makeup stained the soggy tissues wadded in her clutch. She’d add that to the bonfire too. Roast some hot dogs over it. Or marshmallows for s’mores. Chocolate would be good. Chocolate was always good.
Father Sean’s Irish brogue cut through her thoughts. “A reading from the book of Matthew. Happy is the corpse the rain falls upon...”
Stephanie couldn’t care less about her late husband’s happiness because she was free.
But wasn’t she trading one jailer for another? Trading the expectations of how a married woman should act for the expectations of how a widow should act? Although it was the twenty-first century, she was trapped in the Victorian-era expectations forced on her by the high society into which she’d been born.
She stifled a giggle. Most in her society were usually high on something—legal or otherwise. But she would have to play by the archaic rules if she wanted to keep the wealthy clients she’d inherited from her father along with the company her grandfather had built. And she would keep them.
Divorce would have been a better way to go—strange how those rules were different—but thanks to a drunk driver, that was no longer an option.
Unspent rage built in her, the expanding force threatening to blow her head off like a defective pressure cooker. She had been cheated out of the confrontation she deserved, the answers she craved, the closure she needed. The only closure she’d gotten was the thud of the casket’s lid forever sealing any answers in a walnut shell and leaving her with no one to confront.
A fresh wave of humiliation rolled through her and coiled around her heart. The bastard could have at least left her with a baby, but she’d been cheated out of that too. Someone else was holding the baby she’d been dreaming of since the da
y Peter Jak Smith, aka Smitty, had proposed.
Was the baby blond like his father? Did he have Smitty’s teddy-bear brown eyes? Or the deep dimples the two-timer had always been so self-conscious about? The ones that had made his smile so irresistible?
Her knees buckled. If not for the people standing on either side, she might have crumpled into a heap at the foot of Smitty’s grave, tumbling into the hole to be buried with him. But the man she’d called Uncle Brian since the day she could talk and his wife, Aunt Deb, weren’t about to let that happen. Each took an elbow to steady her like they had six months ago when she’d buried her parents.
Uncle Brian’s deep voice rumbled in her ear. “You can do this, baby girl. Hang on a few more minutes, and I’ll buy you the biggest Margarita you’ve ever had.”
Stephanie couldn’t stifle this giggle. And didn’t that draw more than a few disapproving glances? She didn’t care. Uncle Brian, with his off-beat sense of humor, could always find her funny bone. Today, she needed it more than ever. “And Henri’s Beef Stroganoff?”
It was Uncle Brian’s turn to laugh. No one dared judge him. “Absolutely. You throw one hell of a wake, sweetheart.”
That was true, but only because she’d had so much practice.
Strong hands grasped her shoulders from behind and squeezed gently. That had to be BJ, Brian, Jr., their oldest son and the closest thing she had to a big brother. Stephanie shrugged a shoulder, drawing his hand closer to lay her cheek on it. With his father and four brothers, he’d lowered Smitty’s casket into its final resting place. Old school, low tech, traditional. The way she’d buried her mother then two weeks later her father. Now her husband and her dreams of a family of her own would molder and decay with the lot of them.
An umbrella poked through the space over her other shoulder, unfurling to cover her and Aunt Deb. That had to be Riley, the middle son, the nurturer, the fixer. She reached up to grasp his hand in silent gratitude.
Her other three brothers were behind her, too, forming a protective wall at her back. Sometimes, the family you chose was better than the one to which you were assigned. Stephanie’s assigned family all lay under her, silently waiting for this generation’s first resident to settle into his eternal resting place. At least she’d know where Smitty was sleeping tonight. And with whom.
“Hail Mary, full of grace...” The priest’s words sailed over and around her. Not one of his many words had offered her the shred of comfort she so desperately needed. The prayer she’d learned in childhood offered no solace. Pray for us? Why? It’s not like anyone was listening. At least not to her. Not anymore.
She pressed a fresh tissue to her eyes, blew her nose, and added it to her collection. She stomped her foot sending mud in all directions. Childish? Sure, but corpse mutilation was illegal, plus there were too many witnesses.
“Give him hell, Steppie.” The use of the childhood nickname only her honorary brothers used wrapped around her like a hug. None of them had particularly liked Smitty. She should have listened to them.
Now was a good time to start. She stomped her other foot. If the self-righteous hypocrites around her wanted a show to go with their free lunch and open bar, today was their lucky day.
More than likely, the other mourners assumed her display was due to Smitty’s sudden, violent death four days before their first wedding anniversary. The people who had lined the pews of her family’s church to witness a fairy-tale wedding that rivaled that of any princess pledging life-long devotion to her handsome prince. The people who had partied deep into the night at the place they’d soon gather for Smitty’s wake.
That would be the natural assumption. The funny thing about assumptions? They were usually wrong.
CHAPTER 2
ETHAN WEBB LEANED AGAINST the roof of his new Lexus. Obsidian black. Some would say like his heart; others would say like his soul. Many doubted he had either which was exactly the way he’d planned it. Hearts could be broken; souls could be crushed. Who needed them?
His eyes drooped. His breathing slowed. His head dropped to his chest. How long had it been since he’d been able to enjoy a small bit of respite? Too long. He briefly succumbed to the pull of exhaustion until a burst of cold rain slapped him in the face. He awoke with a shudder, shaking the fog out of his head.
Literally asleep on his feet. That had to be a first. Not that he couldn’t fall asleep almost anywhere for a quick catnap to recharge his batteries, but had he had time to do that the past few days? Not really. Somebody always needed holding. Somebody always needed soothing. Somebody was always crying. Hell, he was on the verge of it himself. But this wasn’t the time. Or the place. Would there ever be a time or a place? Probably not. Boys don’t cry. How many times had he been told that? Too many to count.
He’d survived worse, hadn’t he? Yeah, unfortunately, he had.
He blinked hard, reaching up to rub the grit out of his eyes. Thanks to Peter Smith, Ethan suddenly had a family to worry about, and that meant more than trading in his beloved adrenaline red Dodge Viper for the more family-friendly Lexus. He’d drawn the line at getting a minivan. There were some things he couldn’t force himself to do.
But this little side trip? Not a problem. It was almost time for Peter Smith’s other family to worry about Ethan’s family, though they had no clue that family existed.
Telling them was his job.
He was long past the point in his career where he had to deliver the paperwork himself, but he enjoyed it. He got a rush from the panic that bloomed across his newest opponents’ faces when they realized they were about to face the infamous Ethan Webb in court.
Yeah, he looked forward to it.
At least that was what he told himself. Right now, he was looking forward to two things: a full week of uninterrupted sleep, and blessed silence. Like that was going to happen any time soon.
He shook his head again to clear the rest of his grogginess before settling his gaze on the knot of mourners across the service drive. From the car to the widow, through the mourners, and back to his car, the circular route would take about forty-five seconds. He should be back on the road in plenty of time to make his afternoon appointment.
And a nap? After four torturous days and nights walking the floor with his fussy newborn nephew while his sister sobbed in her bed, sleep was all Ethan could think about. But he’d have to settle for grabbing an extra-large coffee with a few extra caffeine shots on the way back to the office. Another one. Who needed the overpriced brew from a coffeehouse when gas stations on every other corner delivered the same kick for less than half the price? If the revved-up coffee didn’t work, he could hook up an IV to mainline raw caffeine.
But first, he had to get through this.
Smitty’s wake was going to be interesting but crashing it would be too far over the top even for the showman and media whore Ethan had become. He winced at his choice of words. Some things never change.
Even though he was part of Smitty’s family, something told Ethan that Smitty’s widow wouldn’t be setting an extra place for him at Christmas dinner. No, such a refined family would never welcome the likes of him. Not today or any day. But then, no family, refined or otherwise, ever had. No matter how many times he had wished otherwise.
Turning his collar up against another onslaught of chilly spring rain, Ethan shoved his fists into his pockets. He watched and waited, feeling more like the cold, hard monuments surrounding him than a man. It was safer that way.
He surveyed the lush gardens, elegant markers, and perfect lawn. Was Katherine buried here? Not likely. If she was buried anywhere, it would be in one of the city’s welfare plots, not in the hereafter’s version of the high-rent district.
Why were cemeteries such beautiful places when the only reason they existed was to confront the harshest of all human realities? The end of life and disposal of the physical body. Death was almost never convenient, and Smitty’s demise was one of the least convenient.
The priest’s voice pie
rced Ethan’s thoughts. Out of habit, he started to cross himself but forced his hand back into his pocket. There was nothing wrong with his soul, thank you very much. What was left of it. But no one here needed to know that. They wouldn’t believe it anyway. Besides, a man had the right to keep a few secrets, to have a private life that was just that: private. Jekyll and Hyde ain’t got nothin’ on me.
Which one was he: Jekyll or Hyde? He wasn’t exactly sure anymore. Maybe it was better to believe he’d been spontaneously generated in the middle of a courtroom, wearing a custom-made suit with his law degree neatly stowed inside his handsome leather briefcase. A man without a past or memories. A man with only the here and now.
And right here, right now, he had a mission to complete. He took his cue from the amen that drifted from the mourners. In a few quick strides, he faced the widow and withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket, intending to hand it to her with his usual sarcastic Have a nice day.
After a visit from him, very few people had a nice day for a good long while. Some never had a nice day again. It was too early to tell in which group this woman would eventually find herself. One way or the other, Ethan couldn’t care less. He was four little words away from carving another notch on his legal bedpost.
But he couldn’t do it. Not this time. Something was different this time, and he couldn’t blame sleep deprivation for it.
He fought the urge to tame the deep auburn curls that had escaped from her severe bun and danced in the wind. To tuck them gently behind the pink shell of her perfect ear. He peered into the depths of her Christmas-green eyes, red and puffy from crying, rimmed with ruined mascara.
He ordered his frozen mouth to work, commanding his hand to extend the envelope, but nothing obeyed. He stood rooted in place with a death grip on the complaint he was about to serve as it flapped in the wind that was no match for the sudden storm raging within him.
He couldn’t let go because letting go would mean his job was done, that it was time to leave. He didn’t want to leave. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. His brows knit; his head tilted to one side. He continued to look into her eyes. His focus shifted to her lips as they opened.