by Kristy Marie
“The wonderful thing about being unemployed is that you no longer have to get up at the ass crack of dawn if you don’t feel like it. Unwanted guests or not.”
Heaven help me. “You’re not unemployed. I thought we discussed this last night.”
“Not employed in the traditional sense, yes. But still… Your flight doesn’t depart until two o’clock today, and I would’ve had half the morning to sleep in, but nooo, you had to interrupt Steve Irwin and me on a sea-scape mission to hug koala bears.”
“Who’s Steve Irwin? And why would you be looking in the sea for koala bears?”
“I didn’t say the dream made sense, Cooper—just that you interrupted it.”
For fuck’s sake. I’ve really lost my mind asking this woman to marry me.
“Apologies to you and Steve, but we have a pressing matter at the courthouse—which is a wedding-scape mission, just in case you’re wondering what to wear. White is the traditional color.”
McKinley pulls a pillow over her head, her golden hair fanned around her like a halo—which is absolutely absurd since this girl is no angel. “Let’s do it when you get back from Cincinnati.”
I snatch the pillow, tossing it to the floor before rolling McKinley onto her back. “You need an OB appointment ASAP. With Ainsley here, we can squeeze in this wedding and solve both our problems before lunch.”
“How romantic.” She glares.
“I try.”
She scoffs. “Can I at least shower first?”
I step aside, allowing her room to slide off the bed and literally—I repeat, literally—crawl to the bathroom and kick the door closed behind her.
“I’ll just wait in—”
“Can you water down a Mountain Dew for me? Put it in one of those tumbler thingies.”
I pause, looking at the closed bathroom door. “Water it down?” I don’t touch the confusion on what a tumbler thingy is. The more urgent question is why she would want a watered-down soda.
The door is suddenly wrenched open, leaving a narrow opening just large enough where I can see her bare shoulders and an annoyed look. “Pregnant women should limit their caffeine intake to one drink a day. I was planning on giving up Mountain Dew, but since you woke me up with an attitude, I’m thinking for your safety, I should have at least a half of one. So—” she manages a pinched smile, “—pour half the can in a cup and fill the other half with water… Please.”
Gross.
“And don’t make that face. I know it’s disgusting, but it’s either that or murder you in the car.”
I fight off a grin. “Understood.”
Before Mac can shut the door in my face, again, I walk away, finding her small kitchen easily and locate a cup (not a tumbler thingy) in her cabinet before opening the refrigerator, housing two cans of Mountain Dew and a jar of pickles. No milk. No leftover takeout. Just Mountain Dew and pickles—dill to be exact.
Why does she only have the two items in her refrigerator? Heaven only knows. All I know is I don’t have the headspace to ask her about it today. Maybe tomorrow. Better yet, I’ll just tell Pops and he’ll ask her. My guess is she eats out a lot and doesn’t bother with leftovers.
Regardless of her eating habit mystery, I pour the Mountain Dew as she requested, taking a few minutes to check on Pops and Ainsley.
“Yel-low,” he answers on the second ring.
“Ainsley hasn’t burned the place down, has she? You know where the extinguisher is, don’t you?”
Pops belts out a laugh. “Ains! Cooper said you can’t use the stove.”
“Pops!” I hiss. “That’s not what I said!” Well, not verbatim anyway. My sister-in-law isn’t known for her cooking skills. What she is known for is nearly burning down her apartment building when she and my brother were in college. That’s how they met. She needed a place to stay, and he was the only one crazy enough to let her sleep over.
“Cooper!” Ainsley comes on the line, laughter in her voice. “I heard you were getting laid. Done already?”
“You sound more like my brother every day.” I tsk, fighting a grin. “Such a shame. You were working your way up to being my favorite sister-in-law.”
“I’m your only sister-in-law.”
I take a sip of the drink in my hand, forgetting that it’s Mac’s watered-down soda, and choke.
“Are you alright? Is your date suggesting a gag and strap-on? Say the word, and Pops and I will come rescue you.”
Clearing my throat, I look up at the ceiling, noting several water stains. “As much as I appreciate you and Pops having my back, I’m good.”
“She’s definitely making him uncomfortable,” Ainsley whisper-shouts to Pops who, I imagine, is right next to her. He would never miss listening in.
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
Why did I call again?
“Sure you aren’t, pookie. That little growly thing you’re doing… only happens when you’re being The Closer.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Sure it does. The Cooper at Christmas is fun and snarky. The Cooper at the stadium has a baseball bat up his ass.”
“Goodbye, Ainsley. Thanks for watching Pops for me.” Pops shouts over her laughter that he isn’t a toddler, but I ignore both their asses and hang up. I have enough insanity to deal with here.
Taking a few breaths, I head back into McKinley’s bedroom, and I’m immediately met with, “Oh good, I need your help.”
My gaze follows the sound until I locate the source.
There, on her knees, water dripping down her back, McKinley looks up at me from the floor in her open closet. “I can’t find my white dress.”
I notice the pile of clothes she’s kneeling on. “My guess is it’s in that pile.”
She smiles, but I can tell it’s forced. “Can you like, for one second, not be you? Pretend you’re my butler who I pay well to find my dress, so we can get to the courthouse faster?”
Finally, she makes some sort of sense.
I haul her up by her arms and shove the watered-down drink in her hand. “Finish getting ready.” It’s not a suggestion, which she thankfully heeds. She merely tips the cup to her lips and walks backward a few steps before closing the door and leaving me to the mess that is her closet.
Five minutes into the search for her dress, I’ve found eight socks (all different patterns) and dozens of shirts, but no white dress. “I don’t think it’s in here,” I holler.
“It’s there, trust me. Check the top shelf.”
The top shelf looks just as bad as the floor, cluttered with shoe boxes, clothes, and other random things like a tennis racket. “Do you play tennis?” I call out, inspecting the pink-handled equipment.
“What?”
McKinley opens the door, her forehead wrinkling until she sees the racket in my hand. “Oh. That. No, I don’t play. I use it to swat the bees.”
“Bees?”
She nods slowly, giving me this look like I’m the only idiot who doesn’t swat bees with a racket. “Carpenter bees. They love the railing on the back balcony.” She tips her chin to the sliding glass doors that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Why not just buy a fly swatter?”
Her eyes roll, and I’m too intrigued to care. “What for, when I have a perfectly good tennis racket?”
“That you don’t play with.”
“Correct.” She says the word slowly like this makes all the sense in the world. “Ooh! You found it!” She rushes past me, still clad in a towel, and grabs something white from behind my head cheering, “Attaboy, Coop!” before disappearing back inside the bathroom.
Attaboy? What—“Why is the shower running?” This day couldn’t possibly get any weirder.
“I’m getting rid of the wrinkles. Have the rest of my Mountain Dew and relax. I’m almost done.”
Part of me wants to know how she’s getting rid of the wrinkles by turning on the shower, and the other part of me just needs a moment to process the insanity of this morning.
I slide the racket back onto the shelf, planning to take McKinley up on her offer and finish her Mountain Dew, when a shoe box—teetering on the edge—falls, spilling half the contents on the floor.
Fuck.
Squatting down, I gather the… napkins? Why is she keeping napkins in a shoe box? I flip one over. The logo on the front is from the concession stand she used to work for—Backdoor Sliders—but the back side is a drawing of a stick woman with a baseball diamond behind her and the words: We’ll go to all the home games. He’d like that, at the top.
I pick up another, and it’s more of the same with a stick figure drawing, though this one is on a swing. We must have a tire swing in the back yard.
“Dammit!”
Her shout startles me. I barely have enough time to gather the rest of the napkins and put the box back when she opens the door.
“I need your help… again. Zip me up? I’ve put on few extra pounds of baby, and this fabric isn’t quite forgiving.”
I swallow, trying hard to divert my eyes to hers and not the swell of her breasts spilling over the top of her dress. “Okay.”
“Don’t make this weird, Number Fifty-Four. You’re about to become my husband…” She grins. “Until delivery do us part.”
Apparently, my behavior confused her.
I tap her nose like one would a child, before taking her by the shoulders and spinning her around, pushing her up against the wall. “Best you know now that being a gentleman is a skill I haven’t yet mastered.”
She gasps, her hands flat on the wall as I take the zipper at her back between my fingers, leaning in closely, her heated skin beneath the cotton as I grip her hip for leverage. “Now, suck in.”
Her hair shifts as she holds her breath, giving me a whiff of something tropical, something fruity. Something… completely edible.
Get it together, Lexington. Just because this girl is taking your last name, doesn’t mean her body belongs to you. That wasn’t part of the deal.
Ugh. I fight the raging erection pushing against my jeans, painfully noticing the fabric stretching tight over McKinley’s body. “All done,” I tell her, stepping back.
Don’t look at her tits. Just don’t.
Too late.
“Thank you.” She shrugs, looking down. “I might not be able to see a baby bump, but my waist sure feels one.”
If she thought that sentence would kill my boner, she was sadly mistaken. It only made it worse. “Let’s go.”
Cooper
The courthouse is busy when we arrive and check-in, signing several forms and handing over our IDs and birth certificates.
“The team will want you to see a psychologist,” Mac mutters, her knee bouncing while we wait our turn to be called back. “They’ll think you knocked me up.”
I sigh, looking to the ceiling. “I don’t care what people think, and my contract doesn’t require me to tell the team when I decide to get married.” Just Aspen, my agent. And well, that’s an issue for another day.
“You should! You’re a celebrity.” McKinley faces me, her eyes wider than when the woman at the desk asked us if we wrote our own vows—I assured Mac we didn’t miss any “homework,” as she called it.
“Be quiet. I’m not a celebrity. We’ll be fine.” I cover her mouth and hold it there for a moment before she pries it off.
“OMG! We need a prenup!”
Yeah, Aspen is going to nut-up with that one. But I didn’t have the time nor the energy to explain it to her without admitting that Cynthia quit, and the woman from Pops’s favorite concession stand was keeping an eye on him. Oh, yeah, and I was marrying her, even though I’ve only known her for a few days.
Yeah, that would have ended with another intervention and a straitjacket.
I might not know McKinley, but I don’t have to. If Pops trusts her then I trust her, even with my assets. But whatever. If she takes me for half at the end of this deal, then it’ll have been worth it to see my Pops happy and watching my games. We’ll just chalk it up as the most expensive caregiver ever. I don’t need a mansion or ten cars that I rarely drive. All I need is enough to keep Pops and me content—even a coaching position at a high school could do that for me.
I didn’t become a professional pitcher for the money. I became a pro because it was my mother’s dream for me, and no matter how short my career may be, I’ll always know I achieved what she worked so hard for me to do.
“Hold on, we can fix this.” McKinley holds up her hand like I was about to bolt, then roots around in her purse (she left the wrench in my car, thank goodness), locating a pen and an old grocery receipt that she flips over. “I, McKinley Parks,” she starts writing, “forgo all assets and money that Cooper Lexington has and will acquire during our marriage. No matter the reasons for our divorce, McKinley Parks isn’t entitled to ANYTHING. If—when—the marriage dissolves, both parties will walk away with no argument, keeping only the money and assets they brought into the marriage.”
It’s cute how she tries to sound professional.
“Signed, McKinley Parks.”
She pushes the paper toward me and cuts me a look that says I better sign without argument. It’s not legal, she has to know that.
“I’ll forge your name, don’t play with me. You might think all this chivalry and shit is cute, and I’ll admit, it has some charm, but I can’t let you be a complete moron. Pops means too much to me to lose him because you hate me.”
“This document will never hold up in court.”
She shrugs. “You don’t know that. Besides, it’ll keep us both honest.”
It’s like talking to an alien.
“Fine.” I sign my name, drawing out an annoyed sigh, and slide the receipt back to her.
“Thank you.” She stands and snatches up the paper.
“What are you doing?”
This time it’s her that slaps her hand over my mouth. “Shh. The couple over there is complaining about how loud you’re being. I’m just going over there to apologize.”
But she doesn’t. Instead, she congratulates the couple on their upcoming nuptials, and then she asks them to witness our prenup receipt.
God, help me.
If I thought this ceremony was going to be traditional, I would have been delusional.
“Do you have the rings?”
“Oh.” Mac looks back at her purse sitting in the chair. “I do.” She holds up a finger. “Give me just a minute. I’m sorry.”
She drops my hand and sprints over to her bag, bringing out… You’ve got to be joking.
My eyes widen, and I look at the judge, afraid he might actually ask me what the fuck is in her hand. But he has a better sense of humor than me, fighting off a grin as McKinley steps up and faces me, two black pieces of plastic clutched in her fingers.
“Are those zip ties?” I try to appear like this level of crazy doesn’t scare me.
“Uh-huh.” She smiles tightly. “If they can hold Lu’s bumper, they can hold this marriage together.”
Tomorrow, I will appreciate the thought, but today, I’m just shocked as fuck as the judge resumes, instructing each of us to recite vows and zip tie our “rings” on each other’s fingers.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Lexington, you may kiss your bride.”
Hesitation should not be in my wheelhouse. I’m a closer, the best reliever in the bull pen. Being put in stressful situations is my Kool-Aid. But right here, in the middle of the judge’s chambers, my palms start sweating as I reach for my bride, slipping my arms around her hips and pulling them flush with mine. “I’m—”
McKinley’s arms loop around my neck, her lips pressing gently against mine. Her warmth… well, I just react. Gripping her hips, I waste no time taking advantage of her silence…and compliance. Maybe it was zipping that dress, watching as my own hands hid the body my eyes lusted after. She wasn’t mine, not in the sense a normal wife is to her husband, but tell that to my body. To the way my fingers dig int
o her hips—hips that will bear a child that is not mine. A mouth that will one day marry another man after we divorce. A mouth that can’t help but pop off with outlandish comments and argumentative retorts. Yeah, my mind might know this marriage is a sham, but my body—my tongue, using her surprise to slip in, claiming her intimately in front of witnesses—knows we’re in deep. This isn’t a kiss meant for a first date or a deal between friends. The feel of her hands tangling in my hair as she moans deep in her chest is intimate—primal. This is a kiss shared only between a husband and a wife.
And I’m… I’m fucked.
A throat clears. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Lexington. You may pick up your certificate at the front desk.”
We finally pull back, McKinley dabbing at her lips, her eyes widening as she stares at me. “Yes, thank you, Your Honor.”
With zip ties on our fingers, we grab our certificate, walk out of the courthouse to the car and shut ourselves inside, both of us silent on the way home.
“Hurry!”
“What do you want me to do? Chew it off?”
Half an hour into our marriage and we’re already fighting.
“If you have to,” she answers. “But we have to get these rings off before Ainsley and Pops get back from the movies!”
She’s hysterical and rightly so.
“Cooper, he can’t find out this way.”
I wiggle the zip tie around her finger. Apparently, I zipped it a little too tight. “He won’t find out, I promise.”
It’s a lie, since I can’t remember where the fuck I put the scissors.
“Who doesn’t have scissors?” She turns, her eyes glistening as she looks back at me through the mirror.
“Soap and water aren’t going to get it off,” I tell her, as she proceeds to empty the soap dispenser on her finger.
“Then maybe I can use it to drown myself!”
“Now you’re just being dramatic.”
“Find the scissors, Cooper!”
I throw my hands up. “I’m looking!” Apparently, I can’t remember where I put the damn things when I caught Pops using them to pry off a bottle cap. He bleeds easily, and the last thing I needed was for Cynthia to be glued to a soap opera while he bled to death in the kitchen. So I claimed I lost them and kept forgetting to buy new ones at the store.
