The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  If only I could.

  I was short on sleep but Felicity insisted that I didn't take a nap so that I'd be sleepy enough to hit the bed at a decent hour tonight.

  Felicity Brightside was a force of nature. While we waited for the clothes, she called Gilles in for introductions in which he participated with a brief nod and a short grunt of a greeting. Then she provided me with a brand new cellphone and laptop, all synced up with hers for contacts and scheduling. In ten minutes, she managed to initiate me into a work-out routine schedule, a healthy diet plan, a finance system along with a couple of credit cards and a bank card, and a calendar for the wedding-related appointments. My brain was near-overloading at that point but she didn't slow down.

  My brand new wardrobe arrived on the dot and whatever sparse furniture I had in my living room disappeared along with a considerable amount of floor space as clothes, shoes and accessories—several tons of them—were brought in. Armina, the personal shopper Felicity picked out for me, was spot-on with picking out my size and mixing items that flattered me the most. I protested in earnest at first but when she started putting things together, I reluctantly admitted that her choices were simple and elegant with a punch of bold colors and a young, playful flair. The three of us giggled like school girls at every outfit I modeled in front of the full-length mirror they'd also brought in.

  Once the wardrobe was done and sorted into wheeled clothing racks stored in the spare bedroom, style team came in.

  They were a mini-army of beauty militants led by Clyde who forced me down on a chair, slapped my eyes shut with a cooling gel pad that effectively disabled me from watching the transformation they were so adamant on putting me through.

  After hours of hair and skin treatments, a cut and style, and some more primping from doing my nails to a very thorough leg-waxing (I drew the line at Clyde's insistence of the Brazilian), I felt brand new and very alien at first.

  When small lumps of dark, honey-blonde hair strewn all over the floor greeted me after they took off my eye mask, I gasped out a small sob before I caught sight of myself in the mirror. As attached as I was to my hair, I couldn't deny that it looked so much better with less weight and volume—one of the many decisions I was relieved and grateful to have been left to the experts because I wasn't disappointed at all.

  I wasn't a glamorous beauty—in fact, I was probably just average-looking—but I had the gift of clear, healthy skin, rare, dark blue-green eyes and a proportionate figure. I knew that with a little tweaking I could look better but I barely had the time or money to even give my hair a trim in the last year.

  Brandon was used to beautiful women, if the things I've read about him were to be believed, and I supposed he didn't want to drag around a shabby wife to add to his suffering of having one forced on him in the first place. A mischievous side of me wanted to get back at him by becoming the exact opposite of his ideal wife but I decided against it. For one, I didn't want to become a pariah myself by dressing up like a homeless person when there were clothes to wear (that's just insulting to those who really couldn't afford any) and I also didn't want to embarrass Martin who must've had a darn good reason for matchmaking me with his son.

  God, I'm going to see Martin tomorrow. He's going to know we're completely lying to him.

  I had relented and traded my shift tomorrow at Marlow's so I could attend the brunch with Brandon and his father. I wanted to see the old man but I was terrified that he would see right through me while I sat there at the breakfast table, tortured by guilt and remorse for participating in this deception Brandon concocted.

  I need to figure out why Martin wanted me to marry Brandon in the first place. If I could at least help him with that, I'd feel better.

  I chanted that in my head every time I thought about tomorrow but after the day I've had, I was exhausted. I could barely form complete sentences in my head.

  Stalking to the fridge that was newly restocked by a pair of guys from one of those fancy groceries who came over earlier at Felicity's instructions, I took out a plastic container of cut-up fruits and transferred some to a small bowl.

  I was just snacking on it when the doorbell rang.

  "Who is it this time?" I grumbled as I contemplated the amount of energy I'd use to get up from the table and answer the door. "A sleep-pattern analyst?"

  The doorbell sounded off again and I groaned, pushing myself off the chair.

  I peeked through the window to look at the porch—something Felicity insisted on in case it was a pap waiting for me outside—and saw the tall, dark outline of Brandon as he tapped his foot impatiently and glanced over at me through the window.

  Reluctantly, I pulled the door open.

  "You'll need to have this door reinforced and secured with additional locks," he said without preliminaries. "I could've just kicked it down."

  "I'm amazed at your restraint," I blurted out at him.

  "It's for your own safety, Charlotte," he reminded me softly.

  "I'm so tired that I can't argue with you right now," I grumbled. "If that's what you came here for, goodnight and goodbye."

  He raised a brow, raking in my appearance with his eyes from head to toe. "This is what I get after making you spend the day with fashion and beauty experts? You look like a ragamuffin."

  I was in my old pajamas, a thin and faded shirt from high school, and my hair was twisted into a knot on top of my head.

  I glowered at him. "Well, I'm not exactly dressed for company. If you want to get your money's worth, wait till tomorrow."

  I turned away and moved to close the door on him but his hand shot out and pushed it back, shouldering his way inside my house.

  Grinding my teeth, I waited while he stood by the foyer and looked around, observing everything with a keen eye and an insufferable silence. He was probably going to say that my house looked like a milk carton next.

  "Looks cozy," he said with a half-smile, turning to me. "We'll hire a housekeeper to look after it while you're living with me."

  I walked back to the dining room and lifted another forkful of fruits into my mouth. "Don't worry about it. I'll come in once a week to clean it."

  He followed me and pulled out a chair for himself.

  Arrogant bastard. Of course, he doesnt wait for an invitation. A chair will materialize out of thin air if Brandon Maxfield wished it.

  "You can't be cleaning houses when we're married—that's just absurd," he said firmly. "Besides, you won't have time. You'll be busy doing all your social duties."

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh, yes. How can I forget about all that mindless and idle elbow-rubbing I have to do with your esteemed society friends?"

  He studied me for a moment before letting out a slow exhale. "I understand it's overwhelming but it's part of the role. I'll do what I can to make it less painful for you but you have to take your duties seriously, Charlotte. I will not stand and let you humiliate me or my family name."

  I sent him a look full of daggers. "You're just pissing me off now. Go away, will you?"

  His lips quirked into a faint smile. "Not until you sign the revised contract. And we have to go over our story so we don't mess it up with Dad tomorrow."

  I opened the thin folder he handed me and flipped through the pages. "Why don't I just stay mute and you can say whatever you want to say? From what I've read in the papers so far, you've spun us a fairy tale romance. I'd hate to ruin it by saying I kissed a prince and he turned into a frog."

  He rumbled out a laugh, taking me by surprise. "Did he just seem like a frog to you because you enjoyed the kiss so much when you wanted to absolutely hate it?"

  My cheeks flushed and I feigned a shudder of disgust. "I'd hate to crush your hopes and dreams but it wasn't all that special. I've had and will still have better."

  His eyes narrowed. "You're prohibited from kissing other men, Charlotte. Ever."

  I raised a brow, chuckling. "Ever?"

  "I mean, at least while you're married to me," he clarified,
his jaw clenching when he realized his error.

  "I don't know why you'd care," I said with a roll of my eyes. "It's not like you're keeping your legs crossed with other women while married to me."

  "It's a marriage of convenience," he bit out, looking agitated now. "And I'm a man with needs."

  I scoffed. "And I don't? It's the twenty-first century, Brandon, and your caveman instincts are really out of date."

  I watched as the hand he laid on the table curled into a fist. "If you have such needs, you come to me."

  The world spun for a second. Did he just really say that?

  "What?" I asked dumbly, though my face felt like it was on fire.

  "I'll be your husband and it'll be my responsibility to ensure that your needs are taken care of and satisfied," he explained, almost in a business-like tone.

  My temper flared. "So if I have an itch to scratch, I'll come to you and give you the honors."

  It was crude, I know, but he deserved it.

  "Either you do or you live with it on your own," he snapped, straightening in his chair. Clearly, this conversation was making him uncomfortable. Well, that made two of us.

  "You have ten seconds to get out of my house, Maxfield," I grated.

  He bolted out of his seat and leaned down at me. "I hate being given countdowns."

  I met his steady gaze. "And I hate crass and insensitive jerks like you."

  "There's nothing crass about admitting to your sexual desires, Charlotte," he replied, his voice softer this time—and more seductive, it would seem. "It's perfectly natural to have them but I'm getting the idea here that you've never really given them free reign."

  He cupped my chin with his fingers and I fought to stay unaffected but I easily lost.

  I moved my face away from him and his smoldering gaze. "Not everyone has the luxury of seeing to their carnal needs, Brand, which the whole country knows you indulge in on a regular basis. But don't worry, I'll keep you in mind when I get really, really desperate that I'll screw anything in my path. You would do, I'm sure. After all, a mindless fuck means nothing, right?"

  He looked angry as he pulled back and picked up the contract I'd angrily scribbled my signature on without even reading it thoroughly.

  I was just so pissed.

  "As for our story, let's just stick with what's on the papers, okay? Because they can definitely see this hoax marriage in a far better light than I can right now," I continued coldly, handing him the first tabloid Felicity gave me earlier. "Now, get out."

  He took the paper without glancing at it.

  He looked angry and... torn.

  "Charlotte..."

  "Get the hell out of my house."

  Without another word, Brandon stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  It would serve me well to remember that despite his princely looks and charm, Brandon Maxfield was a complete and utter villain, and princesses and paupers alike were better off without him.

  Unfortunately, I'd just signed a year of my life over to him as his wife.

  Chapter Six: Meet The Maxfields

  "You're crazy, Charlotte. Crazy and stupid and in big trouble."

  I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection in the mirror again.

  It was Sunday morning and I had just finished getting ready for brunch with the Maxfields. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to dress casually as Martin had seen me before, or dress up so that I looked like an appropriate bride for his son. In the end, I went with the outfit that Felicty and Armina picked out for me—happy to not have to make a choice of my own in the end.

  It was a sleeveless, eggshell-pink shift dress cinched at the waist with a thin, dark pink leather belt and I paired it up with nude, high-heeled pumps made comfortable by two-inch platforms. I encouraged the natural wave in my hair with some light mousse as per Clyde's recommendation and let it hang loose around my shoulders. As for my face, I simply dabbed on some blush, flicked on some mascara and swiped a strawberry lip-balm across my mouth.

  I looked like a perfect lady and decided that it wasn't right because it didn't look like me at all.

  For fun, I layered on a string of pearls and my old, long necklace with a dainty skull-shaped pendant and opted for my favorite denim wristlet instead of the fancy clutch Armina paired up with this outfit. I replaced the pretty belt with a black, single-grommet leather one I've had for years.

  Satisfied, I headed out of the bedroom, grabbing my new, cropped denim jacket along the way.

  Brandon had already arrived, dressed in dark jeans, a navy blue sweater and a cognac-colored leather bomber jacket. He was devastating and if I were weak, I'd combust on the spot. Unfortunately, I might not get away without at least a slow burning.

  He was talking with Gilles in the kitchen and the two men's conversation halted when they saw me.

  "I'll get the car ready," Gilles said with a small nod before turning to go and leaving Brandon alone by the kitchen island.

  "Where's your driver?" I asked, looking around the house. "I didn't get to meet him."

  "He just dropped me off and will meet me back at Dad's house," Brandon answered distractedly as he walked around and circled me in inspection.

  He kept circling me like a hawk, saying nothing, that my patience snapped. I was still testy from our conversation last night and if he had plans to send me back to my room and change, I'd tell him he and his brunch could go to hell.

  "What?" I demanded.

  "I'm pretty sure Armina knew better than to get you skull accessories," he commented, his expression giving nothing away as he took a step back, his finger lightly brushing the pendant that rested on the swell of my breasts.

  The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of my dress and gave me a dizzying rush but I shook my head, determined not to let his fleeting intimacies succeed in disarming me.

  "It's mine and it's staying on," I said stubbornly, moving away from him as if it were the only way to stand my ground. "I didn't get a choice in what you got me for clothes so if I choose to play it up, I'll do it and you're not changing my mind."

  I refused to let my gaze waver from him, refusing to stand down, but he caught me off guard when he just grinned and tugged at a lock of my hair playfully.

  "Okay," was all he said before he grasped me gently by the elbow and ushered me to the door.

  I was still reeling from his reaction as we sat together in the backseat of the car on the way to Martin's house. I couldn't muster any kind of conversation.

  I watched absently as Brandon pushed a button that raised the panel separating us from Gilles up front, giving us some privacy.

  "You look pretty," he finally said.

  I felt flustered. I wasn't used to compliments from him. "You too."

  Amusement flickered in his eyes as I groaned after realizing what I said. "I mean, you look handsome but you probably hear that all the time so just forget about it, okay?"

  His thigh brushed mine. "Why the hell would I? For one, it's a compliment coming from my fiancee, which I've never gotten before since I've never been engaged and two, it's a small victory to hear you admit it."

  "As if you need more victories," I muttered, sagging against the seat. "I hardly need any more intimidation considering I'm about ten minutes away from facing your father. He's going to take one look at me and figure it all out."

  "Hey, don't think like that," he said, grabbing my hand and lacing his fingers through mine.

  Pushing my chin up with another hand, he urged me to meet his eyes—his infernally beautiful, gold-flecked eyes. "Listen to me. I know that Dad won't expect us to be crazy in love with each other. He knows I've never met you before he handed down this condition and he knows how much of a fight I'd put up. He's not going to look for hearts and roses but he'll know if we're faking the attraction. The only way we can convince him that this isn't a total ploy—that we're going into this with some semblance of interest—is to act like we're attracted to each other." />
  Attracted. I'm like metal to a magnet.

  "But we're not," I murmured, my gaze lowering to his lips which were suddenly too near. "Attracted, I mean. We're not attracted to each other."

  He laughed softly. "I would've said that earlier this week. I'm not really sure anymore."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "I'm not going to put up another kissing performance in front of your father because when I slap you hard, he won't have a doubt in the world that this is a total hoax."

  His thumb on the hand entwined with mine rubbed lazy circles on my palm as his eyes lowered to my mouth. "Then don't slap me. Let me kiss you. Enjoy it. Respond to it."

  Evil words, I know, but they sent a shot of longing through my bones all the same.

  I bit my lip, still stubborn. "I don't just let random guys kiss me."

  His mouth quirked on one corner. "I'm not some random guy. I'm your future husband."

  "You're my future husband in name only," I corrected. "Which is probably worse."

  He sighed but his arm somehow made its way around my waist and he dragged me closer to him with it. "Fine. Then think of me as some guy you're attracted to. Some guy you like spending time with. Some guy you find sweet. Some guy you won't mind if he slowly leans in close and tells you you're beautiful. Some guy who draws you into an intimate moment. Some guy you want to be close to. Some guy you're curious to kiss. Some guy whose lips you want to feel on yours."

  The moment was hypnotic that my eyes simply fluttered close when Brandon's lips brushed mine.

  "Some guy whose arms you want to hold you."

  I sank deeper into his embrace as his arms tightened around me, gathering me over his lap.

  "Some guy who's going to earn every kiss you give him back."