Married in Michigan Read online

  Mom nods when I give her my promise, and then I have to help her get repositioned in bed, prop her up and adjust her so she’s comfortable. The effort exhausted her totally, and within minutes, she’s asleep.

  I go home, and wrestle with my decision. I know I’ve already made it, but I’m still trying to convince myself I’m being stupid, that there has to be a better way. That I don’t want this.

  Who would want it? Luxury lifestyle aside, I’m letting myself be used. I’m putting myself in what is sure to be an impossible situation, with a man I don’t know, who I’m not sure I like at all, or can even stand, honestly.

  Yet, as dawn approaches and I haven’t slept a wink, I know there’s no way out of this. I’ve made my choice, and I’m just going to have to accept that I’m the biggest fool who ever was.

  8

  Sunday morning. Nine a.m., six days after the talk with Paxton on his parents’ deck. Usually, I have to work on Sunday mornings, but I traded shifts with a coworker at the breakfast place because she needed the extra hours, so I’m left with a rare morning off to myself.

  I’m dressed in my bum-around-the-house pj's—faded red cotton shorts that only sort of cover my backside, and a tank top with the logo of the pub I serve drinks at in the evenings, which is too small around the chest, leaving half my breasts bared on either side.

  But it’s just me in my little carriage house apartment, so who cares?

  I’m sipping on a mug of hot black coffee, spooning some Greek yogurt into my mouth, and flipping through a magazine, enjoying the feeling of not having to be anywhere for several hours.

  My apartment is a one-bedroom, one-bathroom loft over a workshop garage, out behind the home of the owner of the breakfast place. It’s in a higher-end neighborhood, within walking distance of the hotel, the cafe, the pub, and my gym, and I get a good deal on rent. But, it’s tiny. Galley kitchenette, no dishwasher, electric stove and range, three steps across the entire living room, a bathroom so tiny I can sit on the toilet and touch all four walls and still not have room to shut the door if I’m on the toilet, and a bedroom so tiny my twin bed takes up the entire space, so most of my clothes are kept in clear bins I store under my bed frame, because the closet is too small for actual hangers and there’s no room for a dresser.

  But it’s mine, and that’s what counts.

  I’m shocked into stupefied blankness by a hard, fast knock on my door—which is accessed by a staircase around the side of the garage.

  “Makayla?” A deep, impatient male voice. “Makayla!”

  I could ignore him.

  I’m tempted to. I don’t want to talk to him, see him—I don’t want to be around him, because that will mean telling I’m dumb enough to agree to his cockamamie plan.

  I’m in the act of standing up when Paxton waltzes through the door. I sit back down, snorting in irritation, and gesture at him. “By all means, come on in.”

  He nods. “Thanks.” Missing the sarcasm entirely, it seems. He spies the coffee pot, and the drying mat with my other two mugs on it, and pours himself a mug of coffee, and sits down on my couch beside me.

  “Yes, Paxton, please, help yourself to my coffee.” I glare at him. “This may be a foreign concept to you, I realize, but it’s fairly customary, I think, to wait for permission before entering someone’s home, and to ask before taking their coffee.”

  He blinks at me blankly for a moment, and then waves a hand. “Whatever. Sorry.” He takes a sip of coffee, and then pivots on the couch to face me. “I need an answer. Mom is pestering me nonstop about this, and I really tried my best to give you a full week to think about it, but she’s about to send out the invitations with Cecily’s name on them.” He scrapes a hand through perfectly coiffed brown hair. “So…I need an answer.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tell me again how this will work. I need a few details.”

  He blinks. “That’s a yes.”

  “I need some details before I say yes or no.”

  “But it’s not no.”

  “Paxton!” I snap.

  He suppresses a smirk. “A hundred and…well, now a hundred and fourteen days from today, we get married in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan. Everyone who’s anyone will be there—senators and congressmen, A-list actors, famous musicians, ex-presidents and first ladies. The reception will be worse, or better, depending on your viewpoint. Elbow to elbow with the wealthiest and most famous humans on the planet. A private jet will whisk us away to, oh, I don’t even know, Fiji maybe, or somewhere like that, for a month or so of nothing at all.” He eyes me speculatively, gauging my response, which I keep restrained. “Then we move in together. You’ll have to give up this place, which…I’m sure you’ll be heartbroken, palatial as it is. I live in DC most of the year, or at least while Congress is in session. When it’s not, I’m all over the place. Here, California, New York, Europe. You’ll quit your job, of course, but if you’re bored while I’m working we can find you things to keep you occupied, and before you get all up in arms, I don’t mean shit like tea parties and fundraisers. Housekeeping at a hotel is fine if your only goal is making ends meet, but as my wife, even fake and temporary, you’ll need an occupation that fits your station. You can go to school, and we can get you in pretty much wherever you want, you can take up photography, or horse riding, or…god, I don’t know. It’s up to you for the most part.” He pauses again. “There will be events, of course, and these are a big part of the reason this whole thing is happening in the first case. They’ll mean a designer measuring you, fitting you into a dress, and then a glam squad to do your hair and makeup. We’ll arrive in a limo, be introduced when we enter, and it’ll be a couple hours of mix and mingle. Depending on the event, I’ll either have to make the rounds alone and do my networking that way, or you’ll have to hang on my arm and look pretty and interested and maybe put in your two cents here and there if you want, but mostly just sort of support me by being there and make me look good. Chauvinistic perhaps, but that’s the gig. Then the dinner, desserts, more drinks.”

  He tilts his head at me, thinking.

  “You know,” he says, “There’s a lot more to this than I thought, now that I explain it all. Parties are hard, I guess. You have to be able to always have a drink in your hand, but never be drunk. That’s a big one. If you get labeled as a lush, or get a reputation of being someone who gets drunk too quickly, or as a loud annoying drunk, or someone who disrupts parties, you never get rid of that rep. So handling your booze is super important.”

  Yikes.

  “Being good at conversation is important. Have something to say, know when to listen, know when to just let me talk and when to rescue me from awkward situations. The mix and mingle of a party is an art. It’s never just a party; it’s always politics, always business. They’ll remember what you say, and chances are someone is either recording or will report what you say and how you act.”

  “So, no pressure,” I quip, droll.

  “You said you needed details.” He shrugs. “I’m giving you details.”

  “How long will this last?”

  He frowns. “I don’t know exactly. We’ll have to play it by ear.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know how long I can play the game, to be totally honest. I’m not an actress, and I’m not very good at hiding my feelings.”

  “If you can play the part during public events, the personal, private stuff is less important. Family get-togethers are always awkward, and there is always some combination of people arguing or fighting about something, so the fact that you and I may not be actually in love with each other will not be noticed. I mean, shit, a good portion of the marriages in my family aren’t real either, assuming you even believe in love and real marriage to begin with.”

  “And what about…” I sigh, not knowing how to put it.

  “Finances?” Paxton suggests. “I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re not looking for a payout, per se, because you just don’t seem like that type.” />
  “Good assumption,” I say.

  “You’d just be…my wife. The resources of my family would be at your disposal, no questions asked. Want a car? Buy a car. Want a house for your mom? Buy a house for your mom. Shopping trip to Beverly Hills with your girlfriends? We’ve got a fleet of jets on standby and expense accounts galore. You’ll get a credit card with unlimited access, and as long as you don’t raise any eyebrows, you’re free to do pretty much whatever you want.”

  “What would raise eyebrows?” I ask.

  Paxton shrugs, tilts his head. “Um. I mean, don’t go out and buy a hundred-million-dollar mega yacht without talking to me.”

  I cackle helplessly. “I don’t even know what that is or what I would do with it, Paxton.”

  He tilts his head. “What’s your idea of a big purchase?”

  I roll a shoulder. “Um…Taco Bell?”

  He blinks at me, waiting for the laugh. “Come on, for real.”

  “Every once in a while, me and a few of the girls from the hotel will go out for a few drinks. Usually I drink well liquor but sometimes, like I said when we were drinking your fancy scotch, sometimes I’ll spring for Johnnie Walker Red Label.”

  “What about, like, purses and shoes and shit?”

  I snort, jerk my chin toward my bedroom. “Go look at my closet if you want.”

  He blinks at me, and then takes me up on my offer. Heads into my room, peeks in the closet, which I use mainly to store coats, which I have to tilt sideways and finagle the door closed over them. He glances at me, standing in the doorway watching him. “Where are your clothes?”

  I point at the bed. “Look underneath.”

  He crouches, peering under my bedframe—yanks out the four clear plastic tubs, pops the top on one and flips through my stack of thrift store skirts and T-shirts, cutoff jeans handed down from a friend of a co-worker, a second tub containing my work khakis for waiting tables, logo work T-shirts from the cafe and pub, a third full of my hotel uniforms—black dresses, white aprons, black stockings—and a fourth tub of underwear, T-shirts, workout clothes, and pajamas.

  He frowns up at me. “This is it?”

  I shrug. “I’ve got a pair of work shoes, a pair of gym shoes, and a pair of heels for going out. What else am I supposed to have?”

  “Purses? Jewelry?”

  I cackle. “My purse I got from my mom, and I think she bought it in, like, 1995. I’m not allowed to wear jewelry at the hotel, and don’t care to at the other places I work.”

  He stands up, replaces the tops of the containers, and slides them back into place. “How many jobs do you have?” He asks this as we go back to the living room, and the couch.

  “Three,” I answer. “The hotel, a breakfast cafe on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings, and a pub on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.”

  “When do you go out?”

  I shrug. “If I do, usually Thursday nights. That’s when Kim, Donna, Maria, Tamika, and me are all off.”

  “And I,” he says absently.

  I frown at him. “What?”

  “It’s not ‘and me’, it’s ‘and I’,” he says. “Proper grammar is important to Mom.”

  I glare at him. “Really, right now?”

  He eyes me. “That bothers you? Me correcting your grammar?”

  I don’t want to admit the truth—that I am bothered, but only because I don’t want to admit that I don’t even have a high school diploma. “Never mind.”

  He stares at me, and clearly understands that there’s more to the subject, and that I have no interest in the conversation. “What do you do for fun?”

  I shrug, sniffing a laugh of amusement. “Fun is for people with spare time.”

  He sighs. “Okay, well…you’ll need to find a hobby.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything,” I point out.

  “Can we cut the shit, Makayla? Please?” He gives me a long, open look. “If you’re not in, just tell me. I’ll figure something else out. If you are, then I need to make plans for how to best blindside Mom with this for maximum effect.”

  I wipe my face. “You need a decision right now?”

  He nods. “I do. Mom won’t be put off.”

  I hold my coffee mug in both hands. Meet his earnest, intense golden eyes. “I’m in.”

  He hangs his head, exhaling a long sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck.”

  “I can’t promise how long I’ll be able to keep up the ruse, though, Paxton. Your mom doesn’t seem like she’s stupid, and I’m a terrible liar.”

  “You let me worry about Mom.”

  I laugh. “I’ve worked for her for four years, Paxton. I think I know a side of her you don’t.”

  “I’ve been her son my whole life, so I think I know a side of her you don’t,” he answers.

  “Fair enough,” I say. “My point is, I’ll do my best to play the part, but I’m afraid you’ve probably picked the girl least qualified to play the part of party girl arm candy. Just saying.”

  He quirks a corner of his mouth in a half smile. “And I think, truthfully, that may very well be part of why I picked you.” He shrugs, waves a hand. “That, and because you’re damned beautiful.”

  I blink. “I—You—what?”

  He shrugs. “What? You think this would work if I picked some bag-of-hammers-looking chick? I told you, there’s expectations.”

  “I thought I was meant to flaunt the expectations,” I pointed.

  He nods. “You are, because of your skin color for one thing, and because of your…um, station in life, if you will. You’re beautiful, Makayla.” He hesitates. “Honestly, I didn’t even realize it at first. That stupid outfit Mom makes you guys wear hides what you really look like.”

  I can’t help a snicker at that. “The whole goal is for us to be as invisible and unobtrusive as possible. We’re not meant to be noticed.”

  “With you, it only sort of worked. Once I really saw you, it was obvious that you’re far from average.” He holds my gaze. “Very far. As far as you can get, really.”

  “Well…thanks?”

  He nods. “So. This is it. I’m going to call Mom and get things in motion.”

  I gulp. “So, it’s begun?”

  “It has begun.”

  I’m not ready. Not in any way whatsoever.

  9

  Silence between us.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  He exhales slowly. “I don’t know. We have a hundred and fourteen days. But the wedding is already planned, so I hope you don’t have any big visions of picking flowers and swans and shit.”

  Wedding.

  Gulp. I’ve never considered a wedding. I don’t know anything about weddings. Never been to one.

  “Um. No,” I whisper.

  He detects something. “No? Really? I was expecting pushback on that.”

  I shrug. “I’ve worked two and three jobs at a time, eight to twelve hours a day, seven days a week since I was fifteen. I haven’t exactly had the time to sit around mooning about my dream wedding.”

  He stares at me. “Oh. You really have no ideas or expectations?”

  I stare back. “I thought you said it was planned out already, so what does it matter?”

  “I mean, if you feel strongly about a specific flower arrangement, I could probably do something.” He gestures at me. “And you’ll have input on the dress. Not the designer, I imagine, as I’m certain Mom has already paid to have Vera Wang or someone design the dress last minute for a not-so-small fortune.”

  My head is spinning. I just agreed to marry this man. As in, I do, till death do us part, wear a white dress, take his name, walk down the aisle and, get married.

  I stand up, dump my cold coffee down the sink, and stand there gripping the edge of the counter. “Holy shit.”

  He’s beside me. “What?”

  “It’s just hitting me, what I’ve agreed to.”

  “It’s not real, though, Makayla. I mean, yeah, you’ll be really married to me, bu
t I won’t expect, like…”

  I straighten, turn to stare at him. “About that.”

  He lifts his chin. “Maybe we should cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Yeah. Just, you know, don’t try to—”

  He rests a hand on my shoulder, intending to comfort me, I imagine. “Makayla. No. Don’t even think that. I said we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, and I meant it. I do have a soul, you know.”

  His hand doesn’t comfort me. The opposite, if anything. I brush it away and step out of reach, sit at my kitchen table. “I remember you saying something about an heir. Children being expected.”

  “If you’re thinking I’m going to, like, force you to produce an heir like this is some kind of fifteenth-century monarchy, then I’m honestly insulted. I may be a self-important, entitled douchebag, but I’m not a shitty human, Makayla.”

  “How am I supposed to know that? I don’t know the first thing about you.”

  “Nor I, you. You think I’m any more excited about this than you? I don’t want to get married. I didn’t, and I don’t. I don’t know what to do, how to approach this, how to handle you, this, us—the whole thing. I’m doing the best I can. So to put it bluntly, Makayla, no, I do not expect you to have sex with me on our wedding night.”

  “You don’t expect it.” I know my voice sounds bitter.

  He growls. “Well, fuck, woman, what else am I supposed to say to you? We’re going to get married. You’re an attractive woman. If some part of me does hold out even a minuscule amount of hope that you may one day end up liking me enough for that to happen, even knowing the whole thing is fake and temporary, can you blame me? I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got, okay?”

  I huff a laugh. “I think we’re getting a glimpse of what this is going to be like, huh?”