Married in Michigan

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Goddammit.”

  “Look, Son…just between you and me? I don’t really like her either. But she knows how to play the game, and well. You get married, you pose for photos, play husband and wife, have a couple of kids, make it look real for the press. In private, as long as you’re discreet, you can do what you want. You and Cecily can live your own lives, have your tawdry little affairs, and no one will know or care, if you’re smart and discreet about it.”

  This makes me snort—I can’t help it. It just…erupts out of me. What a crock of bullshit!

  Both Camilla and Paxton fix identical stares at me.

  “Something to say, Miss Poe?” Camilla’s voice could put frost on a hot grill.

  I fake a cough. “No, ma’am. Allergies, ma’am, my apologies.”

  A tense silence. “The bed in the master suite needs turning over, Miss Poe,” she says. “Perhaps you could see to that?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  I head into the master bedroom, strip the bed, clean the bathroom, vacuum the rug under the bed and the hardwoods around it, dust, replace the bedding with fresh, clean sheets and a new comforter—unlike most hotels, we replace the blankets and comforter after every guest with freshly dry-cleaned linens.

  Once the master bedroom is turned over, I finish the other bedrooms because Camilla is still arguing with Paxton about the marriage idea, and if I want to keep my job it’s best I stay away or my mouth will get the better of me—and I’ll get fired.

  I’m nearly finished with the bedrooms when I hear Camilla’s voice, Rick’s voice, and then the sound of trash bags being removed from the foyer. All that’s left now is to put the finishing touches on the kitchen, figure out the imported rug situation, and then I’m done and I can go home.

  Hopefully with a tidy little bonus, on top of time and a half.

  Upon my emergence into the living area, I find Paxton at the table, picking at his egg-white omelet, looking morose.

  Rick is still carting away the many, many bags of garbage, and Camilla is gone, so I’m free to finish the kitchen.

  I hesitate, however. “Mr. deBraun? I need to finish the kitchen, sir. Will you need anything else in here?”

  He waves a hand. “Just the coffee.”

  The pot is empty again, and I realize he’s had two full pots already. “Should I make another pot?”

  He glances at the coffee maker. “Oh. It’s gone again.” He sighs, poking at the omelet with his fork. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Then I’ll just clean it out, sir.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  I clean out the coffee maker, which includes running a cycle with white vinegar.

  “God, what the hell is that smell?” Paxton snaps. “Vinegar?”

  “Yes sir.” I gesture at the pot. “Coffee pots get run with vinegar after every guest.”

  He frowns at me. “Why?”

  “It kills any mold or mildew and removes calcification. So each guest who makes coffee gets as clean and new a coffee maker as possible.”

  He watches as I wipe down the counters again, and then use glass cleaner on the refrigerator shelves. “You’re pretty fucking thorough, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m paid to be as thorough as humanly possible.”

  His gaze is speculative, those lion-golden eyes fixed on me with an interest that makes my girl parts sit up and beg, and my heart and mind retreat behind my walls. “Are you paid to eavesdrop on conversations, too?”

  “No, that’s just a perk of the job,” I hear myself say, before my professional filter can stop it.

  He snorts. “Allergies, huh?”

  I fake another cough. “Yeah, allergies. Bad this year.” I sniffle, for good measure.

  His eye roll is a pretty good indicator he’s not buying it.

  The coffee maker finishes burbling the last of the vinegar, so I dump the pot, rinse it until the scent of vinegar is gone, and then run the machine again with fresh cold water to rinse the vinegar out of the machine.

  “Why the snort? For real?”

  I hesitate. “I told you. Allergies.”

  I’m keeping busy just to keep away from him and his eyes and his scent and his heat and that stupid shredded body of his—I’m sweeping the kitchen even though it can’t get much cleaner.

  I’m not even aware that he’s moved from his place at the table, but his hand latches onto the broom, halting it. I flinch, my eyes floating slowly and reticently upward to his.

  “Why did you snort, Miss Poe?” His voice is commanding.

  I blink, chewing on my tongue to keep a salty retort from getting me fired. “I…I have to get the rug to the cleaners.”

  “Mom’s got that handled. The janitor guy is taking it to a specialist.”

  “You mean Rick, head of maintenance?” I say, and immediately wince at the sass in my voice.

  Paxton waves a hand. “Whoever. The guy, he’s handling it.” He doesn’t let go of the broom, which somehow prevents me from going anywhere. “Why did you snort, Miss Poe?”

  I bite down hard on my lip. “Because sometimes my attitude gets the better of me. I apologize, Mr. deBraun.”

  “Answer the question.” He’s closer to me, standing face to face, towering over me, golden-brown eyes commanding and demanding.

  “I’m not supposed to converse with guests like this, sir,” I say, edging for the exit, ducking my head to escape those damned sexy, predatory golden eyes.

  “I’m not a guest, I’m your boss.”

  “With all due respect, sir, your mother is my boss.”

  He smirks. “Yes sir, no sir. I like that.” He’s looking at me. Into me.

  I only just restrain the urge to smack him across the face. “I have to go, sir.”

  “You don’t.”

  I blink. “I. Um. Yes—I do, as a matter of fact. Once I’m finished cleaning this unit, I’m done…and I’m done. So, I have to go.”

  “You have to answer my question, Miss Poe.”

  “Stop calling me that, please,” I say, mostly managing to sound decently polite and respectful.

  “I don’t know your name.”

  “Makayla.”

  Shit. Why did I tell him that? He doesn’t need to know my name. As if he’ll remember it anyway.

  “Makayla. Very pretty.” He tilts his head to one side. “Like you.”

  I don’t know whether to be insulted that I’m merely very pretty to him, or complimented that Paxton deBraun thinks I’m pretty at all—that he’s noticed me that much.

  Both, I suspect—which is a complicated set of emotions.

  “Why did you snort while eavesdropping on my conversation with my mother, Makayla?”

  “Why do you care so much?” I ask in return.

  “It felt like you were mocking me, and I don’t like that. It’s not a feeling I’m familiar with, so I’m curious.”

  “Not a feeling you’re familiar with,” I echo. “Incredible.”

  “Nor is being refused.”

  I cackle—it’s an eruption of disbelief I have no control over. “You are something else, Paxton. Seriously.”

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to address me by name, Miss Poe.”

  I turn away, shaking my head and laughing still. The hubris of the man was breathtaking. “Good day to you, Mr. deBraun.”

  “I didn’t dismiss you.”

  “I don’t work for you, I work for your mother. And I’m finished my shift. I’ve completed the turning over of this unit, which means I’m now on my time, sir, and I won’t be spoken to the way you’re speaking to me.” I glare at him, my gut roiling and my heart hammering, knowing each word is another nail in the coffin of my employment at any deBraun hotel, assuming they don’t completely blacklist me across the industry, which I know for a fact Camilla can do, will do, and has done.

  “You’ve got a big ol’ set of balls, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead I punch
the elevator call button, and face the polished wood-paneled door, staring a hole in the wood rather than risk eye contact with the unbelievably arrogant man behind me.

  “Makayla.” His voice is surprisingly gentle, this time.

  Thus, I reward him with actual eye contact. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  I’m rocked back on my heels. “For what?”

  He gestures with a huge hand and thick forearm at the penthouse. “For cleaning up after my degenerate friends.”

  “Time and a half and a hefty bonus from your mother is thanks enough.”

  “Meaning, it was a big job.”

  “Yes.”

  He swaggers across the room, towel slung low across his hips. I lick my lips, an involuntary flashback of what I’d seen under the sheet—what’s under the towel—haunting me. His broad chest fills my vision, rippling abs drawing my gaze, a sharp V-cut disappearing under the towel. I close my eyes, shake away the lust, and then open my eyes and force my gaze to his.

  “One last time, Makayla. Why’d you snort at me?”

  “It wasn’t at you, it was at your mother.”

  His eyes widen. “You do have balls of titanium if you’re willing to snort at my mother.”

  “It’s just so ridiculous,” I say, the words tumbling out unbidden. “We’re forcing you to marry some fluffy trollop for the sake of appearances, but don’t worry, you can still fuck around all you want, just be discreet about it.”

  Two slow blinks of his eyelids, and then Paxton is guffawing uproariously. “Oh my god, I would give up my Ferrari to see Mom’s reaction to hearing you say that,” he says, wiping a tear of mirth away from his eye. “Fluffy trollop. You called Cecily Amador-Richards a fluffy trollop. God, that’s amazing.”

  I frown. “It feels like you’re making fun of me.”

  “No, not at all.” He shakes his head. “You clearly have no idea who Cecily is if that’s your description of her.”

  “Shallow, vapid, selfish, cruel, thoughtless, and obnoxious—if I had to pick descriptors off the top of my head without having met her.” I literally bite down on my lip until it hurts. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

  He shrugs. “You’re not wrong. But you forgot cunning, devious, vicious, manipulative, slutty, gold digging…”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Sounds like she’s a real piece of work.”

  “You mispronounced ‘shit’.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your circumstances, Mr. deBraun,” I say. “Good luck with the marriage.”

  “I’m not getting married.”

  “Will your mother really cut you off?”

  He nods, no humor on his face now. “Yes, she will. She controls the purse strings, really. Dad’s sole focus is his company—day-to-day affairs are of no concern to him. I doubt my mother has even consulted him on this, to be honest.”

  “So you really do have to marry this Cecily woman, or suffer the life of a common peon, laboring for a paycheck.”

  “I’ll survive,” he says, wryly. “I’ve made quite a bit of my own money. It’s the political connections I’d lose that worry me, not to mention the clout that comes with the backing of the deBraun family come election cycle.”

  The pause, then, is…fraught. His eyes are on me, and now the speculation and curiosity are replaced by something else. Something devious. Sly. There’s all but a light bulb over his head, lighting up and going ding.

  A grin curls across his lips. “Oh man. That would be something.”

  I frown. “What?”

  He shakes his head. “No, no way. I can’t. I couldn’t.” He laughs. “What a way to stick it to her, though.”

  I have a sinking feeling in my gut. “What? What are you thinking?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s of no consequence, Miss Poe. An idea with no real merit.” Yet despite his words, his eyes remain on mine, probing, searching.

  The elevator door has long since opened, and I push my cart onto it, and then turn to press the button for the service level. As the door begins to slide closed, Paxton’s voice rings out.

  “Are you single, Miss Poe?”

  “Yes,” I hear myself answer, and wish I’d lied. Wish I’d had a snarky retort—the one time I really need a witty, sassy, nasty comment to avoid the question, I don’t have one.

  Just the truth.

  I’m alone on the elevator, but I still feel Paxton’s brooding, thoughtful silence as if he were here in the elevator with me.

  I don’t want to know what he was thinking. I really, really don’t.

  4

  “Hi, Mom.” I lean down and wrap my arms around her.

  She leans her head against me and her eyes smile, but the rest of her cannot.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say, setting my purse on the counter and taking my usual seat on the couch in the corner of her room at the hospice care facility. “You haven’t watched without me, have you?”

  She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at me. Of course not, I can almost hear her saying. Oughta know better than that.

  Today’s a bad day—she’s still in bed, and for Mom, the most vital and active and strong and unstoppable person I know, staying in bed is anathema. But advanced MS doesn’t care. It lays you low, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

  I find the remote and turn on our favorite show—Vanderpump Rules. Mom loves the drama, the vapid nonsense, and the arguments…and if she were to admit the truth to me, the boys. But she won’t admit to it, so we both pretend like it’s just for the mindless over-the-top enjoyment. A guilty pleasure we both love because it’s a chance to get out of our own lives for a while.

  My spot on the couch is as close to Mom as I can get without being in the bed with her—I can reach out and hold her hand, which I do.

  She squeezes, and I turn to look at her—a squeeze means she has something to say.

  I can interpret her many expressions, and this one is one I know all too well. “No, Mom, I haven’t met anyone.”

  Another squeeze, and her eyes bore into mine. “Truth,” she whispers.

  I sigh. “Fine. But I wouldn’t call it meeting someone. The owner of the hotel where I work, Camilla deBraun, she has a son, Paxton. We spoke briefly. But don’t get your hopes up—he’s not just out of my league, he’s in a league I don’t want any part of. He’s rude, arrogant, spoiled, and far too good-looking to be real.”

  “Pax…Jax.” Mom smirks, referencing her favorite character from Vanderpump Rules.

  “Actually, there’s a resemblance. Except Paxton has more money than God and he’s twice as arrogant and twice as sexy.”

  Mom’s eyebrows go up. “New page.”

  I translate, and shake my head. “Tigers don’t change their stripes, Mom, you told me that. Just because Jax is a little nicer and more self-aware now that he’s met Brittany doesn’t mean he’s any different, deep down. And Paxton…well, I only spoke to him for a few minutes, but he’s the world’s most unapologetic playboy. And anyway, his mom is making him marry some rich bitch.”

  Her eyes narrow at me. “Judge not.”

  “Lest ye be judged. Yes, Mom, but Paxton himself said she’s basically the worst human being on the planet.”

  “Why marry?”

  I shake my head. “It’s a rich person thing. Appearances, basically, from what I gather. They were talking about it while I was working. He’s a politician, in the House of Representatives, and she wants him to clean up his image so he can run for Senate. Which means getting married to spin things away from his life as a playboy. He does nothing but throw extravagant parties and prance around with expensive hookers.” I hiss. “Worst part of it all is that his mom doesn’t even care if it’s a real marriage—she said, in so many words, that as long as he’s discreet, as she put it, he can keep sleeping around as much as he wants, just don’t let it make the media.”

  Mom’s eyes are on me, and I’d give anything for her to be able to just talk to me. She has to gat
her her strength, visibly rallying to find the energy and focus for what she wants to say. “Gone soon. Then…you’re…you’re free.”

  Tears fill my eyes, and I know Mom hates it more than anything when I cry about this, so I shake them away. “Stop that, Mom. You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you. I’ll take care of you the way you took care of me. Forever and ever, Mom. So…I don’t want to hear you talking like that or I’ll—”

  Her hand squeezes mine as hard as she can. “Or…what?”

  “Or I’ll watch it without you.”

  She snorts, the same sound that caused me so much trouble last week. “Not.”

  “I will too!”

  “Punk.”

  I laugh, and squeeze her hand. “Fine, I wouldn’t. But for real. No more of that. Okay? Please?”

  Her eyes fix on mine, and as she does occasionally, she shields her thoughts from me. Normally I can translate her expressions and guess what she’s thinking, but sometimes, like now, she gives me a long, hard stare than contains too much for me to untangle, too much to read.

  “You should be…free. Young. Beautiful. Smart.” She thumps the bed with her hand. “Not…this. Old hag. Sick…no future.”

  I choke. “Mom, stop. There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and no one I’d rather spend my time with.”

  “I cost…too much…money.”

  “I’m boring anyway. I wouldn’t go out even if I had friends or anywhere to go, or money to spend.” I squeeze her hand. “You’re my friend. And this is where I’ll be, every night. No matter what.”

  “Gettin’…bored…of your nonsense.” Mom hates emotional scenes like this, always has. Bad days like this, though…they’re hard on both of us.

  We watch our show, and partway through, Mom squeezes my hand three times.

  I don’t look at her, don’t dare. “I love you, too.”