Married in Michigan Read online

  “Just looks like an old car to me.”

  He sighs, shakes his head. “It’s anything but just an old car, Makayla. I’ll take you out for a drive in it someday, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  I wonder at that, why he thinks I would go for another drive with him, and why it would a someday thing. I don’t ask, though, because he’s off and running on another old car.

  “Dad, Grandpa, and Uncle Joe all have a hard-on for the newer hypercars and supercars-- all the McLarens and Lambos and such. They’re both in the garage in New York, but Dad has a Koenigsegg One-to-One, and Uncle Joe has a Bugatti Chiron.” He gestures at the car next to the Porsche. “This is a 1964 Shelby 289 Competition, fully restored.” He looks at me expectantly.

  I shrug, and he glances at the ceiling as if uttering a plea for help from heaven, or for patience with the very dull. “Okay. This one looks a little nicer than the Porsche.”

  “A little nicer—?” he sputters, nearly apoplectic. “Clearly this is wasted on you.”

  I smirk, pat his arm—which is a bit like patting a brick wall. My girl bits sit up and take notice. “Yep. Sure is.” I shrug. “Show me a vintage Hermès handbag and I may be slightly more impressed.”

  “You’d have to talk to Aunt Evelyn about that. She’s got a purse collection valued at several million dollars. She hosts a yearly viewing of her purse gallery, and tickets to the event go for thousands of dollars. Proceeds to charity obviously.”

  “Obviously,” I echo, feeling faint. “What is a purse gallery? And why would anyone pay thousands of dollars to see it?”

  He shakes his head. “You said you’d be impressed if you saw a vintage Hermès. Aunt Evelyn has a—well, it’s hard to explain. Basically, half of her house is dedicated to their bedroom, and of that entire wing of the house, most of it is closet. I’d say, oh…five thousand square feet or so of the house is just closet. Of that closet, most of it is her purse gallery. Which is exactly what it sounds like—a gallery of museum-quality purses, displayed like the artwork they are. In temperature-controlled, biometrically locked, fire, water , and shatter-proof, lighted, all that.”

  I blink for a few minutes. “I don’t even know how to process any of that.”

  He laughs, shakes his head, and gestures. “Come on.”

  This time, I let him lead me out of the garage. He doesn’t take my hand, and I’m an odd mixture of relieved and disappointed. The doorway from the garage to the inside of the house is, anticlimactically, just a normal door; I’d half expected some kind of Star Trek-like automatic sliding door with a disembodied voice. The anticlimax stops as soon as I’m through the door: acres of polished hardwood, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Lake Michigan with a view that beats even the view from the penthouse at the hotel. Everywhere you turn, you’re overwhelmed by the view, stunned breathless. And then, once you’ve gathered your senses, you start to look around, and you see the house itself—windows everywhere you turn, the floors so polished you can see your reflection in them, the marble counters, the glass-fronted floating cabinets in the kitchen and the massive range and the…the everything. This is a home to which the phrase “money is no object” was taken to its upper extreme.

  Paxton stands beside me where I’ve stopped dead in my tracks two steps beyond the door to the garage. “Yeah, gets you every time.”

  I glance at him. “Didn’t you grow up here, though?”

  He laughs. “No. They built this when I was in middle school.”

  “But I mean, from then on, though.”

  “Well, still no. I went to boarding school.”

  I frown at him. “That’s still a thing?”

  He laughs again. “Very much so.”

  I remember bits of the conversation I overheard. “You went to military school too, didn’t you?”

  He chuckles. “You were eavesdropping.”

  I shrug. “Told you—perks of the job.”

  He moves into the kitchen. “Yes, I did, and thank you very much for the reminder.”

  “‘Thanks so much for bringing up such a painful subject. Why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it while you’re at it?’” I eye him as I quote Princess Bride, wondering if he’ll catch it. Probably not.

  He snickers, grinning at me. “‘Whoo-hoo, look who knows so much! This man is only mostly dead. See, there’s a difference between mostly dead and all dead.’”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you’d catch the reference.”

  “Part of the reason I ended up in military school was because I kept getting other guys in trouble. One of my favorite pastimes was convincing kids to sneak out of the dorms at night. I’d…found, shall we say…a movie projector, and a buddy and I hooked it up in a nice little out-of-the-way spot in a corner of the school grounds so it was playing up against the back of an old shed, and we’d watch movies and drink booze and smoke dope and shit. One of our favorite movies was Princess Bride. Oh man, we must’ve watched that a hundred times.”

  “Well, we have that movie in common, at least,” I say. He’s looking at me expectantly again. “What?”

  “What’s your story with it?”

  “With what? Princess Bride?” I laugh. “My mom. She worked a lot when I was growing up, but no matter what, she always had Sunday evenings off, and we’d watch a movie together. Usually, that one. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Footloose, Sixteen Candles.” I sigh, remembering. “But mostly, Princess Bride.”

  “For us it was that one, Roadhouse, Big Trouble in Little China, Escape From New York, Terminator, guy stuff like that.” He chuckles again. “The thing that got us caught was when Freddie stole his stepdad's collection of 70s porn. Our little group of kids sneaking out to watch movies went from half a dozen, to a dozen or so guys, to half the school, because of porn.”

  I laugh. “That’ll do it. But…70s porn? Really?”

  He shrugs. “I mean, for a bunch of high school boys locked in a boys-only school, where our every move was watched and judged and criticized, that was a major score.”

  I shake my head. “Why am I here, Paxton?”

  He hesitates. “I thought you could use a day off.”

  I snort. “Hardly. What was it you said earlier? Pull the other one?”

  He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly seeming hesitant. You said you needed a shower. We have seven full bathrooms, so…pick one.”

  I laugh outright at that. “Thanks for the offer, sort of.”

  He frowns. “Sort of?”

  I wave a hand around my head. “You see this? Taming this takes a lot of products I guarantee you don’t have here.” I pluck at the strap of my sports bra—which, now that I’m alone with him in this decadent, extravagant house, I’m starting to feel self-conscious about being clad in nothing but a sports bra and booty shorts. “Then there’s the fact that I don’t have clean clothes here. And no, there’s nothing of your mother’s which I would either wear or fit in, assuming I’d feel comfortable borrowing clothing from my boss—not just my boss, but the owner of the entire hotel.” I gesture with both hands, at the house around us. “Then there’s the fact that there’s no chance in hell I’m gonna take a shower when I’m alone in a strange house with a man I don’t know.”

  He opens his mouth to get a word in, but I bulldoze over him.

  “So, Paxton. You nearly hit me with your five-million-dollar Ferrari, force me into a day off which I neither wanted nor needed nor could afford, and then you bring me to your parents’ house when I’m just out of the gym, half-naked, sweaty, tired, thirsty, hungry, and want nothing but a shower and few minutes alone. I say again—what…do…you…want?”

  He scratches his head. “What I want—what I need, what I’m hoping you’ll agree to, is something I can’t just come out with. So, how about I make us some lunch, fix us a drink, and then we’ll get down to business.”

  I cross my arms under my breasts, which was a mistake, because it plumps them up and draws his eyes to the
m, and even in this tight-as-hell sports bra, there’s no hiding what Mama gave me in the breasticular region. Which is…a lot.

  His eyes rake over my plumped breasts, over my dark caramel skin swooping down in a deep V into the white fabric of the bra, down my flat belly to my bell-curve hips. And then back up to my eyes, in a valiant attempt to pretend like he wasn’t brazenly ogling me.

  I narrow my eyes. “How about you just tell me what you want so I can tell you no, and then you take me home. Or better yet, call me an Uber.”

  He groans, head tipping back as his hands rake through his hair. “You are so fucking difficult, you know that?”

  “You basically kidnapped me, Paxton. I’m supposed to be easy-going and cooperative?”

  “Kidnapped you? Really?” He turns away, stalks angrily across the kitchen to a side table along the wall opposite a huge white sectional couch; he pours a couple fingers of what I assume is hideously expensive scotch or whiskey, turns back to me with the glass in hand.

  I wait, but no offer is forthcoming. I fake a cough, and arch an eyebrow at him, pretending to drink from a nonexistent tumbler. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just have this nice glass of nothing.”

  He makes a puzzled face. “You drink scotch?’

  I shrug. “Yeah? Is that weird or something?”

  “Yeah, it is. I mean, I was about to get you some wine. I wasn’t going to leave you hanging.”

  I shake my head. “Presumptions, Mr. deBraun. They’ll get you every time.”

  He hands me the glass in his hand, pours another, and then gestures at the wall of glass. “Would you like to sit on the deck with me?”

  I shrug. “I’d rather be at home with my pineapple curls conditioner and my spongy-poof, but I guess.”

  He blinks at me, and I’m guessing I probably don’t want to know what went through his head at that moment. Something inappropriate that would put me off my game, and right now, my game is all that’s keeping me sane. I’m way out of my element right now, in this place with this man.

  He shakes his head to clear it of the presumably scandalous thoughts he was having about me, and slides open a section of the floor-to-ceiling glass, leading the way out onto a multitiered deck—stairs lead up to sections of deck on the two stories above this one, and another set of stairs lead in a winding descent down to the beach below. This part, though, off the kitchen and living room, is the main attraction. There’s no railing, just sections of glass, creating an unbroken view of Grand Traverse Bay. The wind blows, bringing the scree of seagulls.

  Paxton sits at a wrought iron table, slumping to sprawl with kingly elegance in a throne-like wrought iron chair padded with a thick cushion, one leg hanging over the armrest, an elbow on the table, crystal tumbler of expensive-smelling whisky clutched lazily in one hand.

  His eyes search mine, no lust or lecherous thoughts, now. Rather, it’s apparent he’s very carefully considering what he’s about to say. So, I wait. He sips, swallows; I do the same. I, however, cough and wheeze, staring with amazement at the liquid in the glass.

  “What is this?”

  He waves a hand, rubs his brow with the effort of recall. “Balvenie, I think. ”

  “It’s incredible.”

  A slow smile crosses his face. “Show you a garage valued in the tens of millions, you don’t blink an eye. Give you a glass of whiskey, and you’re impressed.”

  I take another sip, savoring it. “My first serious boyfriend was a few years older than me. Like, ten or so. He, um…he liked whiskey, and since I was young and trying to impress him, I got into it too. Developed a taste for it on my own.” I shrug. “Of course, my idea of a treat on a night out is a glass of Red Label on the rocks, because that’s all I can afford.”

  “Red Label.” His snort of derision is no less arrogant and dismissive than I expect; he wiggles his glass slightly. “This is Balvenie Fifty Year. Thirty-seven grand a bottle, extremely rare.”

  I cough in shock, slowly lowering the glass to the table. “I’m drinking the equivalent of a month’s rent, then, at least.”

  He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. I read somewhere that a hotel got a bottle once, and charged twenty-six hundred per glass.”

  I shake my head; push the glass back to him. “You’d better keep that.”

  He shakes his head, pushes it back. “It’s just whisky, Makayla, for god’s sake. There’s a whole cask of twenty-year-old Dalmore in the fucking basement. Don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

  I blink at him and take a careful, measured sip of the amber liquid, which burns like velvet sunfire, the expansive taste exploding on my tongue and in my throat and blossoming in my belly. “Why’s it already weird?”

  “Do you deny that this is an unusual situation?”

  I shrug. “I’ve never been kidnapped by a rich asshole before, so I wouldn’t know if it’s unusual. It’s certainly out of the ordinary for me.”

  He sighs. “Goddammit, Makayla, for the last time, I didn’t kidnap you.”

  “You may not have, like, tossed me in the back of a van and hogtied me, but you certainly didn’t leave me many options.”

  He groans, sitting forward. “If I’d left you an option, would you have given me the time of day?”

  I snort, shake my head. “Nope.”

  He gestures with a hand. “Well, there you go.”

  I frown. “What does that mean, ‘well, there you go?’ Like it’s the obvious solution to a woman not wanting to talk to you.”

  “You’re not making this easy.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “Am I supposed to be?” I take another sip, but I know I have to be careful because this shit is potent and I have a feeling I’m going to need my wits about me.

  “It would be nice if you did.” He’s earnest, genuine, and that makes it all the funnier.

  I laugh, shaking my head at his clueless hubris. “Seeing as I still have no idea what it is you want, or why I’m here, I’m not even sure how to make it easier on you, or what I’m even supposed to be making easier.”

  He groans again, rakes a hand through his hair, and takes a long sip of his scotch, then sets it aside and turns to face me, elbows on his knees, eyes on mine. Laser focus, all business, no humor, no arrogance, this a Paxton deBraun I think few ever see: open, showing his emotions.

  Namely, nerves, if not outright fear.

  Yet, he takes a deep breath, reaches forward and takes my hands in his. Both of them, holding my hands in his gently, his eyes piercing and deep.

  “I want you to marry me, Makayla.”

  6

  There is a long, stunned silence.

  I stare at him, unable to breathe or to blink or think or move. When I’m certain he’s not being funny, I carefully set the tumbler on the table, extract my hands from his, and stand up.

  “And we’re done here. I’ll walk home.” I head for the door, and make it as far as putting my hands on the handle of the sliding glass door.

  “Makayla, wait. Please, just…hear me out.” His voice is low, barely audible over the wind. But it cuts through me, every syllable landing on my ears like explosions; he’s not begging, but he really doesn’t want me to leave.

  I turn back. Spine stiff, I pull my chair away from his, sit bolt upright, legs crossed. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Paxton, but that’s not funny.”

  “I am in no way trying to be funny.” His eyes are certainly serious. “You heard my mother’s ultimatum.”

  I nod. “I did. I don’t see how it’s my problem, or why you think this is some kind of solution.”

  He leans back, rests an ankle on his knee. “I don’t know what else to do, to be perfectly honest.”

  “What else to do other than proposition a maid from your mom’s hotel?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Wait, go back—you don’t know what to do other than nearly hit me with your dumb car, coerce me into coming here when I’m in a vulnerable state, and then ask me to marry you? Just like that?” I sh
ake my head. “What else could you do? Literally anything. Get one of your hookers to marry you—offer her a boatload of cash, jewelry, some nice cars and a fancy condo and I guarantee you’ll find one who’ll play the arm candy dutiful wife for your family’s political shenanigans.” I pause for breath, and then keep going. “Or, just spitballing here, you could just not marry and take the consequences. Or you could marry that Cecily woman.”

  He shudders, and it is not a faked gesture for the sake of drama. “Death first,” he says, once again quoting Princess Bride, but this time it seems to encapsulate his real feelings on the subject.

  “Is she really that bad?” I ask, unable to get the better of my curiosity. “If you’ve basically got free reign to sleep around as long as you play the game for the public, how bad could it really be?”

  He wipes his face with both hands. “You don’t get it. Yes, I could marry her and have as many side pieces as I wanted, as long as I was quiet about it and played the game for the public, and she’d do the same. But I’d have to produce children with her, and that’s the problem—I’d have to procreate with her and I’d honestly rather fuck a cactus.”

  I can’t help a snort of laughter. “Wow. She must be pretty awful.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, she’s attractive…in a Barbie sort of way.”

  “So, perfect blonde hair, perfect big boobs, perfect slender waist?”

  He nods. “Exactly.”

  I tilt my head. “So, what’s not to like about that? Sounds like every man’s dream girl.”

  He shudders again. “Yeah, great hair, great tits, great ass…and it’s all attached to a vicious, shrieking, evil harpy of a bitch who doesn’t give a single shit about anyone or anything but herself, and that’s coming from me.” He shakes his head. “No thanks. Been there, done that, and I’d rather take a bath in hydrochloric acid than let that gold-digging whore get within twenty feet of me or my dick.”

  My eyes widen. “Damn, you really hate her, don’t you?”