Not going to start now, that’s for damn sure.
I lift my chin, stiffen my spine, and wait for Paxton to precede me up the stairs—I’m about to head up when I see John carrying my duffel bag; I take it from him, despite his protestations that it’s his job to carry it for me. He doesn’t work for me, and I’m not about to start letting people wait on me hand and foot just because I’m hanging around Paxton deBraun.
I toss my duffel bag on a seat, and sit in the seat beside it—in the row in front of Paxton. I feel his confusion, but I ignore it. I’m so confused, so conflicted.
I don’t know how much time passes before the airplane begins moving, and the tarmac outside is whizzing past, and I have to grip the armrests and clench my jaw. I breathe hard.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Paxton, beside me. Touching my shoulder. “Never flown before?”
The pressure on my ears, on my chest, pressing me into the seat—it’s terrifying. I shake my head.
His hand is gentle, gripping my shoulder in a friendly, comforting way. His voice is a low buzz in my ear. “Breathe, Makayla.”
I suck in a ragged breath, and realize I was holding it only after my lungs fill with oxygen. I reach out blindly and grab his hand, and somehow his hand tangles with mine, fingers twined with fingers, and I clench it as hard as I can.
After a while, the pressure relaxes, but my terror doesn’t—I’m at the window seat, and outside I can see the world spread out like a quilt far, far, far below.
My terror isn’t as much about being this high up in a tiny little metal tube—it is that, but not just that.
It’s him.
Holding his hand…and it’s comforting.
I’m leaving behind everything I know.
Moving in with a man I’ve now met twice, three times? Marrying him?
What the hell am I doing?
12
To his credit, Paxton doesn’t try to talk to me—and smart of him, too. I’d probably bite his head off. I’m feeling vulnerable and scared, and those feelings make me cranky. Plus, I still have a death grip on his big, strong hand, a fact I want to ignore.
Eventually, once a few minutes have passed, I’m able to calm myself down, take a deep breath or ten, and release Paxton’s hand.
He shakes it, and I see white fingerprints dimpled in the skin. “Damn, girl. You’ve got a grip.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
He just grins, winks, and thumps his chest with both fists. “Ook, me big strong man,” he says in a gruff voice. “Me tough.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You know, for all your many faults, you’re not a caveman.”
“Many faults, huh?” He pretends to preen. “Like what, pray tell?”
I snort. “Um. Where do I start? Obscenely, absurdly arrogant. Entitled. At least a little vain. Wildly out of touch with reality. Spoiled.”
At each fault I list, he clutches his chest, as if my words are arrows. Making a dramatic, wounded face, he leans toward me. “And, may I ask, do I have any positive qualities whatsoever?”
“Not that I can tell,” I say, my voice dry. I bite my lip over the grin that threatens to spread. “Fine. Maybe one or two.”
“Like?” he prompts.
“You’re not too bad to look at. You’re obviously very smart, very well educated, you’re one of the youngest members of Congress in US history.” I roll a shoulder. “You’re pretty funny. Easy to talk to, in spite of being so damn arrogant.”
I realize I’m much more at ease now, and that this entire conversation has been a subtle and effective ploy on Paxton’s part to calm me down.
I sigh, rub my face with both hands. Give him a kind, thankful smile. “Thank you, Paxton.”
He doesn’t ask for what. “Hey, flying can be scary.”
He looks around at the interior of the jet—which is much like the car we took here, an example of luxury taken to its furthest extreme short of being gold plated and diamond encrusted. Cushy, hand-stitched, plump white leather captain’s chairs, complete with extendable footrests, cup holders in one armrest, and a bank of buttons on the other…for massage functions, it looks like. A monstrous flat-screen TV fills the majority of the bulkhead between the passenger cabin and the cockpit, which turns on seemingly of its own accord, tinkling piano jazz. I glance at Paxton, and realize he has an iPad that he used to control the TV.
He grins. “So, this is your first time flying, huh? Gonna spoil you for flying commercial.”
I roll my eyes. “Like you would know what flying commercial is like.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I flew commercial once.” He fakes a dramatic shudder of disgust. “It was awful. Filthy plebeian peasants everywhere, and that was in first class.”
I laugh. “Poor baby, had to fly in icky first class instead of his parents’ ultra-luxury private jet.”
He laughs. “Fly commercial sometime, and tell me you wouldn’t fly private if it’s available. And, honestly, it’s not about the amenities, really. Seats are seats, and the ride quality is pretty much the same. It’s the privacy, and the convenience. No lines, no security, no baggage check, no waiting around in the gate area, no crowding in with two hundred other people. None of the noise and the crying babies and annoying, chatty people in the row with you.” He gestures. “This? It’s quiet, it’s private…it’s just better.”
“Yeah, but I mean, obviously everyone would rather fly private. It’s not like people are sitting there like, yeah, I could have my own jet but I just prefer being squashed in the back of economy class.”
“Well obviously, but it’s also not like I can change the fortunes of the entire country.” He gestures at the jet again. “And this isn’t even mine, it’s my parents’. I just had the ridiculous luck of being born into a wealthy family.”
The conversation wanders after that, to favorite movies aside from Princess Bride, music, funny or embarrassing drinking stories, and suddenly, I feel a shift in the movement of the jet.
I must stiffen, because Paxton smiles at me reassuringly. “Relax. We’re making our approach.”
“Shouldn’t the captain make an announcement or something?” I ask.
“That’s commercial. Our guys just fly the jet. If there’s something important, he’ll come back and tell me himself.”
“Like what?”
A shrug. “Like if there’s a diversion or something, or if we were to hit a rough patch of air with no way of avoiding it.”
“What the hell is a rough patch of air?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Air currents, I guess. I don’t know. Turbulence. That’s what they call it, a rough patch of air.”
I swallow hard. “Doesn’t sound fun.”
He makes an eh face. “Like hitting a section of road with a lot of potholes, basically.”
“You must fly a lot,” I say. “You’re so blah about all this.”
He nods. “All the time. I live in DC, but I hit up New York and LA a couple times a month, and London, not regularly, but several times a year.”
“What’s London like?”
He grins. “Amazing. If I were going to live anywhere just because I like it, it’d be there. DC is where I have to live because I’m in Congress, but I don’t love it. When my time on the Hill is over, I leave pretty fast. New York? No thanks, not on your life. Too big, too fast-paced, too many cranky people. LA is…I don’t know. It’s LA. Not my scene. But London? Yeah, baby. Fun, fast, interesting people, good food, culture…it’s old. A sense of history, like you’re walking these streets and you know Darwin and Shakespeare and Dickens, Winston Churchill…they all lived here, walked the same streets. You can live in the same building they lived in. You can see plays in the actual Globe Theatre.”
I sigh. “Sounds amazing.”
“Never been, I take it.”
I laugh at that, and hard. “I’ve been precisely two places—Detroit, and Petoskey.”
“What about, like, Mackinac Island?”
“Hard to go on vaca
tion even to Mackinac Island when you gotta work seven days a week to make ends meet. Even if I could afford a day off, I couldn’t afford the ferry ticket, and couldn’t afford to do anything while there. Shit, I couldn’t get there simply because I ain’t ever owned a car.” I hiss, annoyed. “I’ve never owned a car.”
He tilts his head. “Why’d you correct yourself?”
I hesitate. “I lived in Detroit with Mom until high school, then we moved up here—up there, rather. I talked like my mom. Like someone from Detroit. Nothing wrong with that, in and of itself.” I hesitate again. “But, when we moved up here, I stuck out. It’s mostly rich white kids in the schools up here, so that alone set me apart. But talking different, too? I made a point of changing the way I talked, so I sounded less like Mom and more like the rest of the kids. The old accent comes back sometimes, and I correct myself out of habit.” I shrug. “Besides, Camilla won’t let us speak with obvious accents.”
He blinks. “Wait, really?”
I nod. “Oh yeah, absolutely. The front desk clerks are actually required to receive ‘elocution training’ from a Hollywood acting coach, so as to speak with region-less neutrality.” I snort, using air quotes around the phrase. “Even we lowly housekeeping staff are given a handful of lessons so we don’t sound like we’re from wherever we’re from. Obviously, you have to speak at least halfway decent English to even be hired. No fresh off the boat hires allowed.”
Paxton shakes his head. “That’s stupid. No one cares how the housekeepers talk.”
I eye him with an arched brow. “Because who would bother even talking to them, right?”
“Exactly—” he cuts off, looking at me. “Don’t take insult where I don’t mean it, Makayla.”
“Actually, I agree with what you’re saying. She wants us to be essentially invisible. Like the hotel cleans itself, or there’s like magic cleaning gnomes or something. Yet we have to speak proper English and be articulate and without accent. Sort of clashing ideas, you know?”
“Mom has always been very particular about things,” Paxton says by way of explanation.”
I feel a variance in the pressure, a sense of weightlessness. “What’s happening?” I ask, hating how squeaky, breathless, and panicked I sound—and feel.
His hand finds mine. And, to my great chagrin and deep confusion, I immediately twine my fingers in his and squeeze hard.
“We’re landing,” Paxton explains, as calm as can be. “It’ll be nice and easy. Our pilots are the best. Ex-military, most of them, and our regular pilot out of Pellston was a copilot on Air Force One for a few years. So, you’re in the best possible hands.”
I glance out the window, which is a mistake—the ground is rushing up at the airplane with dizzying speed, the runway getting bigger and closer and bigger and closer. I gasp in helpless fear, turn my head away from the window and bury my face in Paxton’s shoulder.
He laughs, curling an arm around me protectively. “Okay, so flying’s not your thing.” He’s laughing at me, the bastard. But it’s somehow not unkind. “It’s okay, Makayla. It’s fine.” I feel him bend a little, glancing out the window. “Okay, here we go. Squeeze my hand as hard as you need to. We’re going to touch down in…five…four…three…two…one—”
BUMP—SQUEAL.
I’m pretty sure I crush his hand, I squeeze so hard at the jolt and the bark of the tires, and then I think the worst is over, but it’s not—there’s a roaring sound, like a hurricane howling outside.
“That’s the brakes, babe. It’s normal. We’re slowing down.” Paxton’s arm curls me into him, and he smells like expensive cologne: spicy but smooth, almost sweet, a rich scent that’s not overpowering.
I do NOT want to feel so comforted by him. It’s not right. That’s not what this is. Not who I am. I don’t need comfort. I don’t need anyone, and I don’t want anyone.
I’m doing this for the money. For Mom.
But fear is stronger than my desire to pretend I don’t feel what I’m feeling, so I breathe in his scent, and let myself enjoy, just for a moment, the comfort of his strong arm around me.
This is a comfort I’ve never felt. I’ve never been hugged by a man.
Fucked, yes. Hugged? No.
I swallow hard, choking down the dizzying burst of emotions that bizarre realization brings up in me—and then the roaring stops and the feeling of being crushed forward by momentum slackens.
“See? Done. Safe on the ground.” He doesn’t let go, but he does loosen his grip on me so I can pull away on my own time.
I do, after a moment. I sit up straight, brush my springy curls back over my shoulders, and clear my throat. “I, um. Sorry.”
He tilts his head, puzzled. “Sorry? For what?”
I gesture at him. “For being such a baby about it.”
He smiles, shakes his head. “Don’t be.”
I expect some idiotic remark about not minding having his arm around me, and judging by the mischievous sparkle of his deep brown eyes, I know he’s thinking it.
It’s a legitimate moment between us.
“What?” he asks, half laughing.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“No, you’re thinking something. Expecting me to say something stupid, it feels like.”
I bite back a grin. “I was, actually.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Something along the lines of, ‘hey, if it’ll get you back in my arms, let’s fly all the time,’ I imagine?”
I snicker. “Along those lines, yes. Although that’s a clunky and awkward line if I’ve ever heard one, and I feel like you’re smart enough to be smoother than that.”
He shrugs. “While that may be true, I think what I’m smart enough to know better than to say dumb shit like that to a woman fresh out of a panic attack.”
“Well, at least there’s that going for you.” I frown. “I wouldn’t call it a panic attack. More just…raw fear at a scary and new experience.”
The jet halts with a gentle lurch, and then an attendant opens the door from the outside, and a staircase is put in place, and the attendant, a blonde, middle-aged woman wearing a blue power suit, ushers us off the plane, thanking Paxton by name—Mr. deBraun—with a polite nod and thank you to me. Paxton thanks her back, preceding me down the stairs, where another sleek black Mercedes awaits. This one, while still absurdly luxurious, isn’t one of those Pullman things, but seems to be somewhat similar.
The ride from the airport is long and quiet—I’m at war with myself over my behavior on the plane, and specifically how nice it was to have his arm around me, how amazing he smells, and how I don’t want to like it.
The war is that another part of me, deep inside, a small quiet voice, is whispering that I am marrying the man, after all, so why shouldn’t I, at a minimum, not mind him, if not outright like him? He’s been pretty nice to me, so far. He’s sexy as sin. Rich as hell. Seems to have at least some kind of decency as a person, judging by his reaction to certain things his mother has done and said.
After a good thirty minutes of silence, Paxton pivots a little on the seat, leaning backward against the door and window. “You’re awful quiet.”
I stare out the opposite window, and shrug—we’re on a freeway like any other, with an early afternoon sun shining, bathing everything in yellow-golden light. “Just…thinking.”
“Care to share?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Not really.”
“Come on. One thing.”
“I’m the farthest away from home I’ve ever been. The farthest away from my mom I’ve ever been.” Crap, I shouldn’t have brought her up.
He absorbs what I’ve said, and thinks a moment before answering. “You’re pretty close to her, huh?”
I swallow hard; keep my face turned to the window so he doesn’t see the tear that trickles down my cheek. “Yeah. Super close.”
Silence.
“Um, well. You know, uh—I wouldn’t always be able to go with you, but my car and driver a
nd the jet are always available to you. Let me know if you want to go home for a day or two, and I’ll have the jet warmed up and waiting, and if I’m using Liam and the car, I’ll get a service to take you to the airport. Whenever you want, Makayla.”
I make a show of fixing my hair, but it’s an excuse to wipe at my face, steady my breathing, and then smile at him—but it’s a small, tight one. “Thank you, Paxton. I appreciate the gesture.”
He frowns. “It’s not a gesture. It’s reality. You could say we’re engaged, right? In my world, that means you have full access to the family resources. Especially since the whole reason we’re doing this is to make sure I still have access to those resources.”
I exhale shakily. “Engaged. We’re engaged.” It’s not just my breath that’s shaky—it’s all of me. “What the hell am I thinking?”
Panic sets in—my lungs seize, my heart hammers erratically, and my thoughts whirl crazily.
“Makayla?” Concern paints his voice.
“This is a panic attack,” I whisper.
“Hey, hey, just breathe. Breathe, Makayla.” He physically turns my body so I’m facing him, and I know I’m crying now, but I have no control over it—I can’t breathe, can’t get my lungs to work, and the inability to breathe is terrifying, worse than taking off or landing.
“C-c-can’t—” I gasp, my voice raspy, harsh.
He lifts me bodily off the seat and deposits me in his lap, wraps both arms around me, cradling my head against his chest—I hear his breathing, and feel the steady thumping of his heart. He sucks in a deep breath. Holds it.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs.
I try. Fail. Lungs won’t cooperate.
He lets the breath out slowly. “Count with me, okay? Ready? One…two…three…four…five…” And then he inhales again, a slow filling of his lungs, holds it, and counts again.
Slowly, patiently, he repeats the process, counting to five, breathing in, counting to five, breathing out. It’s something to focus on, and gradually I feel myself mimicking him. A tentative, shuddering breath. Manage to make it as far as three, and then my breath explodes out, and I have to fight to bring it back in. And then I’m sobbing, hating myself for this weakness, this panic, for needing the comfort Paxton is providing.
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