The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  I wrinkled my nose and stuck my tongue out at him. "Leave it to you to be self-serving all the time. Well, are we done here?"

  "Is that it?" he asked, looking around in mild surprise. "You don't want anything else from here?"

  I looked around uncertainly. "Uh, no, not really. Besides, I can't afford anything here except maybe the nice paperbag the stuff comes in."

  He sighed. "You really have to wrap your head around the fact that you're going to be rich—at least for a year. It wouldn't do for a Mrs. Maxfield to be telling people she can't afford something."

  I thrust my chin up proudly. "I may be in this devil's deal with you but it doesn't mean I'm completely unfair. I only want to spend what is rightfully mine and whatever money I get out of this, I'll spend on something more practical than some bling."

  Brandon didn't say anything more after that. He just shook his head as if he couldn't figure out what I was babbling about and had no patience to figure it out.

  He signed the paperwork and in ten minutes we were out of the store, heading for his car.

  "I can take a cab from here," I said, pausing by the door. "You probably have more important things to do."

  "I'll drive you home," he insisted, holding the door open. "Get in."

  I sighed and made no move to get inside the car. It had been a crazy half day and I needed some solitary time to get a grip. Spending another fifteen minutes with Brandon wasn't going to help me achieve that. "I can get home just fine, Brandon. Jeez. I'm not twelve, you know?"

  "Yeah, just seven years older than that which isn't much to recommend your ability to take care of yourself," he pointed out. "Now, get in or I'll shove you inside."

  My shoulders squared. "You wouldn't dare."

  He arched an imperious brow at me. "I would dare a lot."

  I stuck my tongue out at him. "You're a bully."

  "And you're trying my patience," he countered, taking a step forward to back me into the open door of the car. "Get in the car, Charlotte."

  I really could've just gotten inside to end the discussion but I couldn't resist goading him when he was being so overbearing like this.

  "Now, I'll just keep standing here to spite you," I said airily, giving him a sunny smile.

  "Charlotte, don't push me." He leaned closer and now I could see the dangerous glimmer in his eyes.

  I swallowed hard, unable to come up with a witty comeback. I glanced away and was about to relent when he suddenly grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me up against him, his mouth anchoring on mine.

  Fuck. There's fireworks.

  The sudden flare of heat and electricity that swept through me startled me into a frozen state where I could hear or see nothing except the sudden drum-dance of my heart and the flash of light behind my closed eyes.

  My mind went blank until Brandon's warm, soft lips moved against mine, angling slightly to one side to deepen the kiss, his tongue slowly teasing its way into my mouth.

  At that bold move, my reflexes fired back up to life and I reacted.

  Oh, boy, did I ever react.

  My arms slipped around his neck as I pushed myself up on my toes, allowing his own arms to wrap around my waist as I matched his every assault.

  I thought I knew what it would be like. I dreamt it often enough. But this... this is... crazy.

  No one would ever make the mistake of thinking me a shy soul but I was also never particularly aggressive. But as Brandon's own heated reaction started to sabotage his restraint with the way his fingers were digging into my hips and the way his little growls and moans grew raspy as our lips parted for a second to change angles, I let myself go and kissed him for all I was worth.

  Then as quickly as he yanked me to him, he grasped me by the arms and pushed me away.

  Whoa.

  I opened my eyes and sought his and even in the bright light of day, I could see the dark, sensual haze in them as he battled for breath and control.

  So I wasn't dancing that tango alone.

  "What was that about?" I asked between breaths. "You... you... kissed me."

  "I did," he said with a nod, the emotions in his eyes finally disappearing behind the usual shutters as he straightened up and squared his shoulders. "There was a pap snapping photos of us across the street. If we're going to sell this marriage to my father and the public, proof that we're crazy for each other would do that."

  Ouch.

  That felt like a bucket of ice cold water poured down on me.

  "How the hell would they know where to find us?" I demanded, trying not to give my anger away.

  We had a business agreement and the occasional displays of affection were stated in the contract. I had no right to get upset just because the kiss affected me so much.

  "I called ahead to the store to tell them that my fiancee and I are picking out wedding rings," he answered flatly, showing no sign of his earlier... distress. "Barford and his staff know how to work the publicity for their benefit. That's why I selected this store for all of our wedding jewelry instead of having private jewellers show us their designs in the privacy of my home. They're not best known for discretion. Besides, it doesn't take much for gossip bits like this to leak out."

  A damn publicity stunt. That was what it was.

  Well, what did you think it was? Brandon suddenly realizing he's in love with you and just had to passionately kiss you? Yeah, right.

  "You might want to warn me next time so I don't slap you," I muttered through clenched teeth.

  A small smile appeared on the corner of his mouth. "Hmm. It didn't seem like you were inclined to protest anyway."

  My fists balled on my sides. "You are such an ass."

  And with that, I slipped inside the car, slammed the door shut and strapped on my seatbelt with a decisive yank of my arm.

  I was fuming as I sat there while Brandon drove me home.

  I gave him the directions to my place in a small, quiet neighborhood full of dainty, cookie-cutter houses. The car hadn't come to a full stop yet when I scrambled out of it and slammed the car door behind me.

  I was so pissed.

  I ignored him as I marched up to my front porch, unlocked the door and bolted it close.

  One year is going to be a freaking eternity.

  Chapter Five: On The Brightside

  "Hello, Ms. Samuels! I'm Felicity Brightside and I'm your personal assistant and temporary wedding coordinator. It's so nice to finally meet you. How are you doing today?"

  I blinked and took a step back, not sure if I was having a lucid dream because the woman's neon pink skirt-and-suit ensemble seemed offensive enough to my eyesight that this couldn't possibly be some hazy nightmare featuring serial killer Barbie.

  The late morning sun's glare went out of focus, allowing me to concentrate on the woman standing at my door, sporting the most beautiful, pale, golden blond hair I've ever seen in real life. She flashed me a pearly-white smile, her... cheerfulness so palpable it hurt to look at her for another second.

  Did someone let loose a Stepford wife around here?

  "Um, sorry, I didn't catch what you just said," I said, giving her an apologetic smile and squinting as her bright pink outfit tortured my eyes further. "I just worked a nine-hour night shift and was sleeping for a little bit. Only half my brain is working right now."

  Her pretty face—the real-life version of Barbie's—etched with concern. "Oh, a bride must get at least eight hours of beauty sleep every night, especially with only two weeks left before her big day. We must remedy that. We also need to ramp up your diet and make sure you're eating healthy and staying fit so that you'll look nothing less than perfect when you walk down the aisle. We have work to do, Ms. Samuels."

  In the groggy web of my consciousness, the woman's earlier statements echoed until their meaning fully sank in.

  Oh, God.

  Holding up a hand to stop her from making any more attempts to come through the door, I grabbed my cellphone tucked under the waistband of my yoga
pants and dialed a number.

  As it rang, I peered over the woman's shoulder to scan the street outside and saw a black town car parked out front. A tall burly man with a shaved head was leaning against it, watching us with a remote expression on his face.

  "Yes, Charlotte?"

  "Brandon, what in the world is Ms. Brightshine doing at my house?" I demanded, ignoring the thrill that went through me at the sound of his cool, lazy voice on the other line when he said my name.

  The woman dressed in neon perked up on the toes of her matching pink stiletto pumps and wagged a finger at me, smiling. "Oh, it's Ms. Brightside."

  Brandon chuckled. "Didn't she introduce herself, darling? She's your new personal assistant and an acting wedding coordinator until the one I hired finishes the wedding she's doing this weekend."

  My fist clenched but I pasted a smile on my face for the woman's sake. It wasn't her fault that Brandon thought it awfully hilarious to inflict her on me.

  "But darling, I'm fine on my own. I don't need a personal assitant," I replied sweetly although I silently cringed at the crestfallen look on Ms. Brightside's face.

  "Yes, you do," he said with a sigh. "You're getting tossed into unknown waters with no time to teach you how to swim or at least keep your head up. Ms. Brightside will help you navigate your way around. She comes highly recommended. I suggest you take full advantage of her skills."

  I gritted my teeth. "I feel incredibly rude discussing this with you on the phone while she's right in front of me but I've managed on my own my entire life, Brand, and I'll manage being your wife just as well."

  There was a moment of silence before he spoke again, finality in his voice. "If you don't want her help, fire her. Only you can do it."

  The line disconnected and I stared at the phone as if it were some alien creature about to cover my hand with slime.

  I swallowed uneasily, tossing the gadget to the ratty bench by foyer and glancing up at Ms. Brightside. She was watching me with blue eyes big with trepidation and hope.

  Fire her? How the hell will I fire her? It's like kicking a bunny and enjoying it.

  She was young, probably only a handful of years older than me, but her wide-eyed gaze was clearly innocent and demure. It was also apparent that she desperately and earnestly wanted to help—even if I didn't need or welcome any of it.

  Damn you, Brandon. You just know how to twist my arm.

  "Hi," I greeted her sheepishly.

  She beamed at me. "Hello. So, will you keep me, Ms. Samuels? I can make your life so much easier and more fabulous!"

  Good Lord, what do they feed this girl? Sunshine and daisies?

  I nodded. "Yeah, you're on board. Sorry about that. Come on in."

  Because I can't kick bunnies.

  "So, Ms. Brightside," I started awkwardly. "What's your first name again?"

  She brightened, extending a hand to me. "Felicity. Felicity Brightside."

  Jesus. Felicity Brightside? Who is this—happiness personified?

  I flashed her a smile and shook her hand. "My name is Charlotte Samuels. It's nice to meet you."

  "Oh, no, I'm ecstatic to meet you!" the woman gushed, her beautiful blond curls bouncing around her shoulders. "I was so honored when Mr. Maxfield handpicked me as his future wife's right hand. Everyone is so curious about you!"

  I grimaced. "Well, this curiosity isn't going to kill the cats—just merely bore them. There's nothing special going on here, trust me. Just a regular girl. Marrying a regu—er, I mean, great guy. Simple wedding. Simple marriage. No fuss."

  Felicity's eyes widened in disbelief. "No fuss? How can people not fuss when everyone's so caught up in the movie-like romance of your love story? You two look so in love! Just look at this!"

  She backed away quickly to give herself room to pull out a folded tabloid from under the little filing folder she was hugging. With her practically prancing in her heels with excitement, she handed the paper to me.

  I scanned the front page of the gossip tabloid and groaned, slapping my forehead.

  The article's title screamed in capital letters: DINER CINDERELLA CAPTURES MAXFIELD PRINCE!

  It went on to detail how Brandon Maxfield ran into me at Marlow's one night a while ago and was unable to take his mind off me until we saw each other again this week. He got me to finally sit down with him, talk and fall madly and instantly in love.

  I had a feeling Brandon fed them this story because as far-fetched as it sounded to me, the story was written so convincingly, one would have to be heartless to be unaffected.

  If they only knew.

  There was an enlarged photo of my hand sporting my giant engagement ring and another much larger shot of me and Brandon locked in a passionate embrace as we kissed in front of the jewelry store from our trip there yesterday morning.

  The image was a little grainy but there was no mistaking Brandon. I, on the other hand, had my back turned to the camera, my hair in a tangled mess, my arms wrapped around Brandon's neck.

  "See? Isn't that so sweet?" Felicity's bubbly voice penetrated my whirling thoughts and I snorted.

  Sweet was merely one of the by-products of our talented acting—well, Brandon's talented acting.

  Because you sure as hell know you weren't feigning anything when you kissed him as if you were dying for it.

  My cheeks flamed and my fingers curled around the edge of the tabloid, curmpling the paper.

  "Something wrong, Ms. Samuels?" Felicity prompted, peering at me with concern.

  I looked up at her, smiling while I forced my annoyance back down. "Just thinking about all these nosy paps who can't mind their own business. I don't particularly enjoy their overeager interest."

  Felicity's bubble gum pink mouth tightened into a line—the closest she can probably get to a frown. "I completely understand. It's part of my job to make sure they don't bother you too much. The man you saw out front is Gilles and he's going to be your chauffer and bodyguard. He scared away the paps who were stalking around the street earlier but they never stay too far."

  My eyes bulged. "There were paps outside earlier?"

  "Yes. The news of your whirlwind romance and engagement to Brandon Maxfield has been spreading like wildfire in the last twenty-four hours, Ms. Samuels. It's only a matter of time before they track you down and hound after every bit of juicy information they can get about and from you."

  I swallowed hard. "That doesn't sound fun."

  She shook her head. "No, it isn't always. It's great if the publicity is helping one of your causes but most of the time, they're just digging for dirt which is never nice."

  And I have a lot of dirt. All six-feet high of it packed on top of my father's coffin.

  I didn't want any of that dug up. I wouldn't be a hypocrite and say that I wasn't ashamed of my past—I most certainly was about some parts of it. I wouldn't deny it because I wasn't in the habit of compounding my shame with lies but I wouldn't volunteer it either.

  I sighed.

  I knew in the back of my mind that the public attention was going to be one of my biggest hurdles in this deal with Brandon but it was only now that the enormity of that risk was sinking in.

  "Well, I'm glad you're here to help me then," I chirped with forced cheerfulness, smiling at Felicity. "Brandon said you came highly recommended. You must know the ropes like no other."

  The woman, heaven bless her, perked up and nodded energetically. "I certainly do. My father was former Governor Mark Brightside and my mother was Ms. Tennessee. The Brightsides are a very high-profile family especially with my older brother running for governor in the next election and my sister starring in her own reality show about her fashion career as a model, muse and now designer of her own shoe line. I, on the other hand, being the baby of the family, have recently graduated from Brown with a B.A. in Modern Culture and Media, with honors and at the top of my class."

  My jaw dropped in incredulity. "Then what the hell are you doing here with me?"

  Felici
ty smiled as if my question was something she heard all the time. "To gain insight about the whole experience while standing by the sidelines instead of being the center of attention. And I'm writing my M.A. thesis paper on the cultural influcence of the real world's real housewives—the power and opportunity of a political wife to powerful men. And before you say I'm sexist in assuming the woman's role as an ally instead of the main figure of power, don't, because my goal is to point out just how much more influential the wife can be than the all-important-husband. You're a great case because you're from a completely unexpected background—much younger and from humble beginnings."

  I think I had brief metaphorical nose-bleed there from Felicity's thesis pitch but I appreciated her candidness. For someone who obviously came from wealth and a high social class, Felicity was sweet and terribly endearing because of it, with no airs or attitude about herself.

  "So am I a school project then?" I teased her. "Specimen A: Charlotte Samuels."

  She grinned and shook her head. "Maxfield. Specimen A: Charlotte Maxfield."

  Charlotte Maxfield—holy crap.

  I felt the urge to flee and never look back but I forced myself another dose of fortitude.

  I may be poor and down on my luck but I was never a coward.

  "Yes, Charlotte Maxfield," I repeated, nodding slowly as if trying to get myself used to the sound of it by saying it out loud. "But please call me Charlotte. It helps to keep me grounded. I'll confess that Brandon's world intimidates me a little. I'm not used to it and it's not used to me. I'll need all the help I can get."

  The twinkle in Felicity Brightside's eyes should've warned me.

  "And I'll give you all the help you'll need, Charlotte," she promised. "We start today. Your brand new wardrobe is arriving in fifteen minutes."

  ******

  It was well past eight at night when Rainbow Tornado finally left me in peace.

  I was so exhausted I wouldn't have made it to my Saturday evening shift at Marlow's if I'd tried.

  I practically sobbed when Bobby called to tell me that Marissa, another waitress, needed to pick up an extra shift this week and that if I didn't mind, she could cover for me. It sounded fishy considering Bobby never once called anyone up to try to guilt-trip them into giving away their shift but I was so relieved I told him I loved him and that I would have his babies once I was divorced. He just laughed and told me to enjoy my evening.