Close Quarters
Amazon
About the book
I left racing for a reason.
But when team owner Jacques LaRue offers me a chance to try to make amends for my best friend’s accident, I find myself back on the circuit hand-holding rookie driver Grady Lewis. We’re miles apart, and not just in age. He’s the sunshine to my grump. The fresh-faced newcomer to my jaded veteran. The friendly free spirit to my solitary recluse.
And if I want to help the man who I put in a wheelchair fund his new charity, I’m stuck being Mr. Sunshine’s race engineer for the rest of the season. The voice in his ear on race days. The link between him and the rest of the team. Which means we’ll be practically joined at the hip.
Strangely, despite our differences, the relationship works, on and off the track. And it’s the off-track part that’s the problem. Sure, we’re hot for each other. I mean, who wouldn’t want Grady? The guy is seriously smoking, with his California surfer boy good looks. But hooking up isn’t just a terrible idea, it’s potential career suicide. For both of us.
And falling in love? Well, that would be a disaster of epic proportions. Every time he goes out on the track, his life is in my hands. The last time I was responsible for someone I cared about, he wound up paralyzed, and I almost drowned myself in a bottle of Jameson. My head is telling me there’s no way I can risk that happening again.
But it seems like my heart has other ideas.
Close Quarters is a contemporary mm sports romance about open-wheel race car drivers. It’s a grumpy-sunshine, age gap love story set against the glitzy backdrops of Monaco, Brazil, Mexico, Australia and more. Close Quarters is a stand-alone book in the Faster series, which also includes books by Leslie McAdam and Victoria Denault.
praise for Close Quarters
“I loved every minute of Ben and Grady’s story! This is a perfect age gap grumpy sunshine romance because the mix of steam and emotional connection is so well balanced. It also has a high level of action with well detailed race scenes.”
“Grady and Ben don’t work on paper, but are actually perfect for each other. Their chemistry is hot, they complement each other in all the best ways, and Ben in particular, stands out as a really interesting, lovable character. This MM racing series just keeps getting better.”
“This story is SMOKING! It’s sexy, hot, the details are exquisite and I can smell the oil fumes as I read! If you’re an F1, motorsports or just a sports fan in general you need to read this stat!”
“This book grabbed me and held tight to the very end. The characters were compelling, the racing was exciting. And the romance… Whew!”
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Ben
“How are Shelby and Miles?”
I stare at the well-dressed man across the table from me, not a hair out of place, his obviously expensive designer suit perfectly pressed. He looks like a fish out of water in my local coffee shop, with its faded gingham curtains, chipped coffee cups, and ancient, scarred linoleum. Armani and middle-American blight just don’t mix.
“You didn’t come all the way to East Nowhere, Kentucky to ask me about my cats.”
Sure, they’re objectively great cats. Shelby—named after legendary race car designer and driver Carroll Shelby, of course—can fetch. And Miles—named after Ken Miles, an engineer and driver on Shelby’s Cobra racing team—likes to sing along with my vintage Johnny Cash records. He’s especially fond of “Folsom Prison Blues.” Makes me wonder what he’s plotting when I wake up in the middle of the night and catch him staring at me.
But this guy—Jacques LaRue—is the owner and principal of a Formula One team. I know he’s got better things to do than travel halfway across the continent to check up on my pets.
And I’m afraid I know exactly what that better thing is.
Jacques chuckles. I swear, even his laugh has a French-Canadian accent. “So much for small talk.”
“I haven’t got time for small talk.”
I sip my sub-par coffee and wonder, for a second, what the multi-millionaire across from me, who’s used to champagne and caviar, thinks of the sludge in his cup. Then I realize I don’t fucking care. I don’t fucking care what anyone in Formula One thinks about anything.
Not anymore.
“Really.” He eyes me over a chip in the rim of his coffee cup. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?”
“That you don’t know what to do with yourself. That you’re holed up in this podunk town like a goddamn hermit, only showing your face in public when you need gas or groceries.”
He’s not far from the truth. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. Coming home was a split-second decision, made in the heat of the moment. The depths of despair. Hell, I hadn’t even called this place home in years. It’s not like I have any family left here, and the only person I can count as a friend is Zeke at the Pump-N-Dump.
I just wanted—no, needed—to be as far as possible from racing. And Clearapple, Kentucky seemed like the farthest place, distance-wise and demographic-wise, from the fast-paced, high-stakes world of Formula One.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I make a sweeping motion around the crowded restaurant. “Seems pretty public to me.”
“And to think, I only had to threaten to sic Elodie on you get you here.”
Elodie’s his daughter and second-in-command at LaRue Motorsports. And as tenacious as Jacques is, she’s ten times worse. If there was a poster child for won’t take no for an answer, she’d be it.
Which probably explains how we wound up sleeping together that one time. Something I hope to hell her father isn’t aware of.
I grab the glass sugar shaker from the middle of the table and pour a generous amount into my cup. I like my coffee sweet. Especially when it’s the consistency of motor oil. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“What question was that?”
“Why did you want to see me?”
He lowers his cup and leans back, casually crossing his legs like what he’s about to tell me isn’t going to be earth-shattering. “You know Grady Lewis.”
“Not personally.”
Although I sure as hell know who he is. It’s hard not to, even with my self-imposed Formula One ban. Son of five-time World Drivers’ Championship winner Archie Lewis. Favorite of all the F1 fangirls and frequent motorsport mag cover boy, with his golden curls and piercing, blue eyes and wide, open smile.
And LaRue Motorsports current problem child.
“Then you know he’s had a rough time making the jump from F2 to F1,” Jacques continues as if I said the quiet part out loud.
I shrug, feigning an indifference I wish I felt. I’m not supposed to care what happens on the circuit. That part of my life’s fully and firmly in my rear view mirror. And if occasionally I glance at Autosport magazine, or get the urge to tinker with a turbocharged 1.4 liter V6 engine, that’s totally normal. Like a chain smoker who quits cold turkey, going through temporary nicotine withdrawal.
Right? Right.
“He’s a kid. He’ll adjust.”
“Not without a guiding hand. Which is where you come in.” Jacques drops the casual pretense and leans forward, propping his forearms on the table. “He’s not clicking with his race engineer. He needs a softer touch. Someone who can funnel information to him without overwhelming or frustrating him. And there’s no one better at handling young, inexperienced drivers than you.”
The flattery’s a nice touch, but it will get him nowhere. “What if I don’t want to come in?”
Jacques arches a single, bushy brow at me. “Are you seriously telling me you don’t miss racing? The teamwork? The adrenaline rush? The cheering crowds?”
“The pressure. The anxiety. The stress-induced ulcers.” All of that is true, but none of it’s the reason why I’m no longer in the pits. “You know why I left. And why I can’t come back.”
“No one blames you, Ben.”
He’s wrong. I blame me. If I had been paying more attention, if I had made sure the crew checked the calipers one more time that last pit stop, my best friend would still be racing and not in a wheelchair.
“What about Elodie?” I asked, changing the subject.
“What about her?”
“You can’t tell me she’ll be happy with me on the team.”
Jacques may not know I slept with his daughter, but he’d have to be blind, deaf, or living under a rock not to have seen the tension between us. The circuit’s small—ten teams, twenty drivers, and their various support staff, from designers to mechanics to catering and public relations. As much as I’d like to avoid Elodie, it was impossible not to run into her every once in while.
Jacques tips his head back to study me. “It was her idea to bring you on board.”
I find that hard to believe, but I can’t question him without getting dangerously close to revealing the reason why. So I don’t. Instead, I change tacks, going for blunt bordering on rude. “Not interested.”
“You haven’t heard the rest of my sales pitch.”
“There’s nothing you could say that would change my mind.”
“How about a hundred grand, plus a ten grand bonus if your boy finishes on the podium?”
It’s a generous number—almost twenty grand more than I was making with my last team, not counting the bonus he’s dangling in front of me. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t tempt me, at least for a split second.
But then I remember the final turn of that last lap at Albert Park. Stefan, seconds away from the podium. His panicked voice over the coms, yelling that he’d lost the brakes. His car pitching into a spin and hitting the barrier head on.
My heart and my palms start to sweat, making me almost drop my damn coffee cup, and the moment passes. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got everything I want right here.”
Liar, liar, coveralls on fire. I gesture around the coffee shop, like overcooked eggs served with a side of local gossip is a sufficient substitute for the roar of the automotive grease and the smell of the crowd.
Jacques motions to the waitress for more coffee. Brave man. “And another hundred K to help Stefan get his charity off the ground.”
Okay, that one’s got my attention. Unlike me, Stefan hasn’t let the accident define—or defeat—him. And it hasn’t dampened his enthusiasm for racing, either. Another difference between us. He’s hell bent on starting an organization to make motorsports more accessible for people with disabilities.
But a couple hundred grand is like pocket change for Jacques. The guy practically shits money, and he throws it around like candy. In addition to the F1 team, he’s got at least three homes—one of them on his own damn island in French Polynesia—a garage full of vintage sports cars, and a 80-foot superyacht that he keeps docked somewhere in the Caribbean. And rumor has it he’s in the market for a Gulfstream G700.
So if I’m even going to think about taking him up on his offer—and that’s a gigantic, Sebring International-sized if—he’s going to have to cough up more than a lousy two hundred G’s. Not for me. What he’s offering is more than enough to maintain the modest, upper middle class lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed. I’m talking about Stefan. It’s going to take way more than a hundred thou to get his charity up and running.
After everything he’s been through—everything I put him through—he deserves the chance to make his dream a reality. And if there’s a way I can help him to do that—even if that means heading back to the racetrack—well, I guess that’s the least I can do.
And the least Jacques can do if he wants my services so damn bad is pony up some more cold, hard cash.
He senses my hesitation and pounces, like a tire gunner at the start of a pit stop. “It’s only for the rest of the season. That should give Grady enough time to get his feet under him.”
Or enough time for you to decide to cut him loose, I add silently. No matter that he’s racing royalty. This sport is brutal. If the kid hasn’t shown improvement by the end of the season, Jacques won’t hesitate to dump him. Not with a line of hopefuls waiting in the wings—otherwise known as F2 and F3—to take the wheel.
“No dice. Unless—” I leave the word dangling, like a lure at end of a fishing line, floating temptingly in the current.
He takes the bait, just like I knew he would. “Unless what?”
“You up your offer.”
He tips his chair back, balancing it on two legs, and stares quizzically at me. “I didn’t take you for the greedy type, mon ami.”
I’m not his friend, I’m his employee. Maybe. But I don’t bother to correct him. Not on that point, at least. “Not for me. For Stefan. His charity. I want you to agree to fund it for the first year, with a promise to continue to help him in the future if it takes off.”
Which, knowing Stefan, I’m sure it will. He’s one of the most determined people I’ve ever met. Hell, he could even give Elodie a run for her money.
Now it’s Jacques who hesitates and me who pounces. What the hell. I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Except a few months of good, old Kentucky peace and quiet. And everything to gain for Stefan.
“Come on, mon ami,” I say, throwing Jacques’ words back at him. “It’s a good cause, and the donation will look great for your corporate image. And don’t forget the huge tax write off.”
The front legs of his chair fall back to the floor with a dull thud. “If I agree to this, you’ll work with Grady?”
I nod.
“And you’ll stay with him for the rest of the season?”
I nod again.
“No matter how hard it gets?”
I wonder what he’s not telling me about this guy. Like what exactly is his problem? And what led to the breakdown with his current—or I guess now former—race engineer? Those are questions I should probably ask, and more. But against my better judgment, and with thoughts of the look on Stefan’s face when his funding comes through, I swallow them down and stick my hand out across the table.
“I keep my promises. If I say I’ll stay, I’ll stay.”
Jacques takes my hand in a vice grip and pumps it up and down like he’s a politician angling for my vote.
“Then we have a deal.”