He glances at me, then, and laughs. “I guess so.”
Silence.
“Again, I ask you, Paxton: now what?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s a little over three months till the wedding. It would have worked for there to be a surprise wedding if it was Cecily, because she and I have been photographed together on and off for years, and speculation has run rampant about us getting back together, especially since she dumped that Linus Mackenzie tool, so a surprise wedding between her and me would make sense to the media.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have to think like Mom, and then outsmart her. Which is hard. So, um…with you, no offense, but you’re nobody. Meaning, no one knows who you are.”
I snort. “No offense taken, because it’s just the honest truth.”
“So, a surprise wedding with no precedent, no exposure, no rumors of me seeing anyone? That’ll raise eyebrows. But I don’t want it to be known that it’s you, in particular. I want it to be a shock to Mom and my family and the media who it is I’m marrying, including what you look like, and who you are.”
I frown. “I see the conundrum. Put out rumors without letting out the whole truth.”
“Exactly.” He paces back and forth, and I think I’m getting a glimpse of Paxton the Congressman. “I think the best plan would be to be seen together, but pay a specific photographer for specific shots that we leak ourselves, that show me with you, hints of you, but not details of what you look like or who you are, just enough to whet the tabloid frenzy’s appetite. I won’t tell Mom shit, and that’ll drive her crazy. Just tell her I’ve got it covered, and it won’t be Cecily. If I promise to be there, with a suitable bride, she’ll take me at my word.”
“What about the invitations?” I ask.
Another shrug. “Not my problem. She’ll send something out that says something along the lines of ‘the deBraun family cordially invites you to attend the wedding of Paxton deBraun,’ blah blah blah, and just leave off the bride’s name. It’s gauche, as Mother would put it, but unavoidable as I’m going to refuse to provide a name. I don’t care about the appearances of it—that’s Mother’s problem, not mine.”
“I see.” A pause, and then I glance at him. “So all we really need to do is release a few photographs of us together?” I ask.
“No, no.” He pivots away, but with only three steps across the living room his need to pace is tightly curtailed. “You’ll have to move in. Get pictures of the moving truck, shots from behind with my arm around you as we go into my condo, some us on the town.”
I swallow hard. “I…move in? Like, when?”
“Like, now.” He faces me. “We, as a couple, will have to be at least somewhat believable for the wedding. Right now, you’re stiff as a board around me. If I touch you, you shy away. I don’t know how to act around you. You call me Paxton, and only my mom calls me that.”
“Move in with you…right away.” I’m faint. I was expecting a bit more time, I guess. “A moving truck would be silly, because I can’t imagine your DC condo would require anything that I have here.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Obviously. It’d be full of prop furniture. A staged photo op. Have a real estate staging company fill a truck with a believable load of stuff from a normal woman’s apartment, bring it in for the photographers, and then load it back up in secret through the private loading dock.”
I laugh, despite myself. “What a ridiculous game.”
He nods, serious. “It’s all a game. That’s what it is. But it’s serious, and for keeps. And for now, I have to play it, or my whole future is shot.”
He turns to me, a hand in his pocket—for the first time since he arrived, I take time to really look at him: dark wash jeans, just the right amount of tight, clean, straight. Orange polo, the front tucked in behind a black leather belt, the rest left loose, black high ankle leather boots, buckles and straps instead of laces or zippers. Casual, but still dressy and presentable and elegant. Hair perfectly just so—not gelled into submission or actually messy, just…effortlessly perfect, swept to one side, short on the sides and longer on top, a few strands draping over his smooth forehead.
“Do you want to keep this place?” he asks.
“What?”
He gestures. “The apartment, such as it is. Are you attached to it? I can pay the owner enough to make sure it stays open for you until you’re ready to come back. Or, you can bring your personal effects and when we go our separate ways, I can see you set up in a new apartment with new furniture and stuff.”
There’s one logical, obvious answer. “There’s very little that I really need, honestly. The apartment is just convenient. If I have to quit my job and move in with you, marry you, divorce you, and figure out a new life after that, then I imagine the life I have afterwards is going to be pretty drastically different than my life now.”
He nods, his hand still stuffed in his hip pocket. “I’d say that’s true.”
“So.” I shrug. “The apartment doesn’t matter. It’s just somewhere to live, really.” I look around, and laugh ruefully. “And truthfully, I really don’t like this place. Even for a dirt poor barely making it chick like me, it’s tiny. But it’s safe, and it’s cheap, and it’s mine.”
“And your stuff?”
“I’ll pack a suitcase with my makeup and comfy clothes and stuff, but from what you’ve told me, nothing I own will really be good enough for the life you’re telling me I’m about to jump into.”
“Also true. There’s a lot of shopping in your future.”
I grin at that. “Well darn. What a hardship.”
He snickers. “Yeah, poor you. Have to buy a whole new designer wardrobe, purses, shoes, and makeup.”
I look around again. “What’s our timeframe?”
He glances at a wristwatch that blinds me with the amount of gold and platinum on it. “I have to be in DC for a meeting with some colleagues early tomorrow. I can help you pack, make some phone calls for you if need be.”
My head whips up to lock eyes with him. “Wait…tomorrow? Like, pack and leave today?”
Paxton’s eyes are actually somewhat sympathetic. “Um, yeah?”
“I have scheduled work shifts, Paxton. It’s customary to give two weeks’ notice before quitting a job.”
“Say there’s a family emergency. They’ll figure it out, and it’s not like you’ll be back there anyway.” He’s so casual about it; but then, it’s not his problem to worry about.
Or, I guess, it is now. Sort of.
“Fine.” I feel like this is, somehow, jumping off a cliff—the first of a series of no-returns. Quitting without notice is anathema to me, being someone who takes my reputation as an employee very seriously. “I’ll call my bosses.”
“I’ll handle the hotel,” Paxton offers.
“If you handle me quitting the hotel, your mom will suspect something,” I point out.
He growls. “Yeah, true.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So what can I do?”
I shrug. “Sit there and be pretty?” I quip. “On second thought, you being here will just unnerve me. Just…give me a couple hours and I’ll be ready.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m not giving you a chance to change your mind. And you gotta get used to me being around, Makayla.”
I hate that he’s right.
He just fills my apartment in a way I’m not used to. His presence, his scent, his bigness—my tiny apartment feels so much tinier with him in it.
Plus, dealing with Tanya at the hotel means bringing up Mom, since Tanya is aware of the basics of my situation, and I just don’t even want to bring Mom into this.
I find my beat-up old Razr flip phone, the same one I’ve had since high school, and dial the café first. Bill, the owner and manager, answers. “Just Eggs, this is Bill.”
I take a deep breath. “Hi, Bill, it’s Makayla.”
“Makayla, what’s up? If you need a shift, I’ve got Lisa looking to have Monday morning covered.”
I wince. “I, actually—um. I have a family thing, Bill.”
“So you need time off?”
“Um. I—I’m sorry for the short notice, but I actually have to put in my notice.”
“So, two weeks? Or now?”
“Now, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry. I’ve never quit without notice before, but it’s not something I can avoid.”
“Well, if it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped. Sorry to see you go, though. You’re a great waitress and great to have around.” Bill is also my landlord, I should point out. “You need a break on the rent? Or are you moving out, too?”
“I’m moving out. It’s a sudden thing.”
He sighs. “It was good having you there. But I get it. My mom died a few years ago, and I had to upend my entire life to deal with it.”
This is the worst part of this situation, but I choke it down. “Yeah. Thanks for understanding. I’ll make sure it’s clean.”
“Nah, don’t worry. I know you’re a neat sort. Hope things work out, Makayla. Good luck.”
I sigh sadly. “Thanks, Bill. You’re a dear for being so understanding.”
“Hey, life happens, you know?”
Before I can think too hard, I call my manager at the pub—Brad. He’s a brusque, all-business sort. “Makayla. Talk to me.”
No beating around the bush with Brad. “I have a family emergency that’s taking me out of state for the indefinite future. Normally I’d give two weeks’ notice, but under the circumstances, I can’t.”
He huffs, annoyed. “Shit timing. I’m down three girls on the floor this weekend already, and you’re quitting?”
“I’m sorry. Nothing I can do. I feel bad, but—”
“Fine, fine. Family first, I get it. Not great for me, but I’ll figure it out.” He pops gum. “Guess I need to make some calls about new help. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Brad. Sorry again.”
That call over, I have two down and the scariest to go. Those jobs just filled in the gaps. The hotel is my big paycheck, the job I can’t afford to lose.
I glance at Paxton. “This is the big one. You’re sure about this? Once I quit this one, there’s no going back for me, so you better be rock solid fucking certain on this.”
He nods, hands in his pockets. “I’ve got your back on this, Makayla. Even if it goes sideways somehow, I’ll see you’re on your feet when the dust settles. On my honor as a deBraun.”
My thumb hovers over the entry in my phone for Tanya. “I am so stupid,” I whisper to myself. “This is so stupid. Why the hell am I doing this?”
Paxton opens his mouth, but I hit the green phone icon, and wave a hand at him to forestall his protest or attempt at comfort or whatever it was going to be.
“Hi, Makayla,” Tanya answers. “I hope you’re not calling to switch shifts on me, because we’re short today, and I’ve already had two girls call in sick, so I really, really need you.”
I can’t stifle the groan. “I—shit, Tanya. I’m sorry, I—”
She blows out a breath. “You have got to be kidding me. You’re quitting.”
“I have to. I’m sorry.” Not entirely a lie, but it feels like it.
“Goddammit.” We’ve worked together for too long for her to bother hiding her feelings behind some veneer of professionalism. “Tell me I’ve at least got two weeks before I need a replacement?”
My silence is telling.
“Your mom?” Tanya surmises; she knows the basics.
“Yeah,” I whisper, unable to lie beyond that.
“Well, your check is here, along with an envelope to you which I assume is from Mrs. deBraun, and which I assume is a bonus for the penthouse job.”
“I’ll come get it later today.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry, Tanya. I really am. I’ve never called in sick, never been late, and only rarely ask to switch shifts. You know I’d never quit last second without notice and without a damn good reason. I hate doing it, but I’m really out of options at this point.”
She makes a sound that’s half groan, half sigh. “I know, Makayla. I really hope things work out for you.”
I swallow hard. “Me too, girl.”
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up the call, toss my phone onto the table, and take a sip of my coffee—I grunt and spit it back, because it’s gone cold; a glance at the pot shows that Paxton took the last full cup.
I groan. “Figures you’d take the last of it.”
Paxton glances, and at least has the decency to look chagrined. “Sorry. I can make another pot.”
I wave a hand. “Be easier to just go get a cup from North Perk.” I gesture at the coffee maker. “That thing is older than both of us, and takes at least half an hour to make a pot.”
He takes a moment to examine the surroundings—my kitchen, and the beat-up, thrift store table and chairs we’re using, the chipped mugs, both thrift store finds, one with the faded logo of a St. Louis dry cleaning company, and the other an auto repair shop in Nome, Alaska; the ancient TV on a rickety stand, both also from thrift stores, and the TV is probably one of the earliest color TVs ever made; my couch, threadbare, with noisy springs and upholstery that’s more stain than fabric.
“Sensing a pattern when it comes to the overall age of things around here,” Paxton says.
I shrug. “Working girl barely making ends meet, Paxton. New stuff is for fancy people who can afford things like, oh, you know, paying all the bills in a month.”
I stand up, toss my coffee in the sink, rinse out the mug, and set it upside down on the drying rack. “Well, I suppose it’s time to start packing.”
I stretch, leaning backward with my arms over my head, arching my spine until it cracks, and then twist side to side to crack it lower down—forgetting, momentarily, what I’m wearing and the company present. My boobs swing heavily side to side with my twisting, until one of them flies out. I cover it immediately with my hand and shove it back into place, but the damage is done—I glance at Paxton, who is staring at me with a blank, blinking expression, jaw tight, fingers clutching his coffee mug hard, as if suppressing his reaction requires maximum effort.
Blushing furiously, I tuck my hands under my armpits, covering my chest with my arms. “Sorry. I—yeah. Um. I’m going to get dressed. You can stay, or…whatever. I don’t even know.”
I’m not a prude, nor particularly or overly modest, but for some reason, the wardrobe malfunction has me off-balance and embarrassed, even though I’ve gotten naked with men I’ve known a shorter time than Paxton. I don’t really have any issues with my body, and I’m generally very confident about what I look like—and I know pretty damn well that most men are easily hypnotized by the natural monstrosity of my tatas alone, not to mention the rest of my curvaceousness. Paxton brings out something unique in me, though. I don’t know what, or how to define it or label it or handle it, just that he makes me feel odd and self-aware and more self-conscious than normal. Not self-conscious, just…physically self-aware.
Maybe.
Ugh.
I turn away from him and lock myself in my room—and change into a tight, minimizing bra, a pale green crew neck T-shirt, and my least flattering light-wash jeans. Nothing like the outfit I was wearing when he hijacked me on the side of the road, or the pajamas I was wearing when he barnstormed my apartment. I run a brush through my hair and keep it out of my face with a hairband.
I really don’t have much, so it’s short work to pack: my clothes are already in bins, and I have another for shoes and belts and scarves and such, and then my toiletries, shower stuff, phone charger, and the few other sundry items all fit into my gym duffel bag. Everything I own is packed within twenty minutes—the furniture I’ll leave for Bill, so he can rent the place fully furnished.
I exit the bedroom and find Paxton still at my table, nursing his coffee and scrolling through a social media platform on his phone. “So, you’re dressed and ready to go.” He swallows the last of his coffee and shoves his phone in the back pocket
of his dark blue jeans. “I can help you pack.”
“I own, like, eight things, Paxton. I’m already packed. Five bins, a duffel bag, and my purse.” I shrug. “That’s it.”
He frowns. “I drove the Porsche here, which may fit a duffel at most.” He digs a set of keys out of his hip pocket. “So we go to my parents’ house and switch to the Rover, come back and get your stuff.”
I let out a sharp breath. “Okay. Let’s go.” I frown. “Wait, so we’re driving to DC?”
He laughs. “You kidding? No. We fly—private jet out of Pellston.”
I boggle at him. “Private jet? Like, an actual jet you guys own?”
Paxton makes a face of amused hilarity. “Yes, Makayla, an actual private passenger jet we own.” He stares up and to the left a moment, thinking. “Actually, I think Dad owns a few. Three or four big Gulfstreams he leases to various charter companies, and if somebody needs to use one, we just need to give them few hours’ notice. But this jet is a heavily customized Gulfstream Three, for the personal use of our immediate family in the Northern Michigan area only. The others, extended family and authorized friends of family, can use the others, but this baby is for us only.”
I cackle, a little overwhelmed. “Just because I’m so clueless, what’s the difference between a normal private jet and a ‘heavily customized’ one?” I ask, using air quotes around his phrasing.
He chews on his lower lip in an attempt to not laugh at me. “Oh, only about a hundred million dollars.”
I get a little woozy, and have to hold on to the counter. “A hundred…”
“A hundred million dollars,” he finishes.
“Meaning, yours is a hundred million dollars more than the average?”
He nods. “At least. And I mean, you can get a little baby jet, like a Cirrus or whatever, for like two mil.”
“Does that make yours one of the most expensive?”
“Like, most expensive ever? Maybe in the top, oh, ten or fifteen in the world, but nowhere near the top. That belongs to a sultan of somewhere or other I think. But his shit is gold plated on the inside and is worth like five hundred million or something stupid.” He shrugs. “Which is cool, I guess, if you’re into having things gold plated and diamond encrusted.”
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