Married in Michigan

by Jasinda Wilder

  He doesn’t waver.

  Just breathes, and counts.

  I find myself matching him, eventually. Get a full inhalation, hold it for five, exhale, and count again.

  His arms are strong and hard, yet his embrace is gentle. His hands are on my shoulder and my waist; his breath is on my scalp, his chin in my hair. He’s all around me, and I’m breathing because he’s breathing.

  How long does it take to gather myself? I have no concept of the time. It feels like forever, and yet it is only a moment. When I can open my eyes and breathe and behave like a rational human again, I straighten away from his embrace.

  His golden-brown eyes are warm and concerned. “Okay, now?”

  I nod, can’t summon a smile. “Yeah.” I want to look away in embarrassment and shame, but I don’t. Not sure why, because those two emotions are top dog in the pile-up inside me, but I just can’t. “No, but yeah.”

  “No, but yes?” He uses the tip of a middle finger to brush a curly tendril of hair away from my eyes, and it’s too intimate a gesture and I can’t handle how that makes me feel, so I slip off his lap and move back to my seat, and buckle up.

  “I’m over the panic attack, and I’m not going to cry anymore, but I wouldn’t say I’m okay.” I look out the window, and realize we’ve stopped. We’re in downtown Washington DC, parked along the curb. A smirk from Paxton at my seat belt has me laughing despite myself. “I didn’t realize we were here.”

  He smiles, but it’s distracted. “So, we’re here.”

  I nod, a sarcastic expression on my face. “So I’ve noticed.”

  He gestures out the window. “You have no way of knowing how this is going to work, I’m realizing.”

  “How what’s going to work?” I ask, and then look in the direction he indicated—there’s a small cluster of men and women with cameras being held back by several large men in black suits and mirrored sunglasses. “Are those guys Secret Service?”

  He chuckles. “Nope. I don’t rate protection, being a lowly first-term House rep. They’re private security.”

  “How did they know we’re here? How did the photographers know?”

  “Well, Liam, my driver, is also head of my personal security detail, and it’s his job to get bodies where I need them, so he alerted the crew here in DC while we were on the drive over.” A gesture at the photographers. “As for them? This is a pretty high-profile address, and a lot of DC power players live in this building, which means there are always photographers lurking around waiting for a car to show up so they can get shots of whoever it is arriving.”

  I watch the activity outside: security keeps the photographers at a distance, but they push and leverage and angle to get a shot of the car.

  Turning back to Paxton, I push my hair back and stiffen my spine. “So. What are we doing?”

  “Liam will open the curb-side door, and I will slide out first. I’ll offer you my hand and help you out, but I’ll keep both Liam and myself between you and the photographers.” His gaze is serious. “This is the first the media will know of you, and it’ll be just shots from a distance, over my shoulder. No details, not enough to identify you, but enough to get the speculation started.”

  “So this is a big deal,” I say.

  He nods, serious. “It is.” A hesitation. “I’ve um—I’ve been photographed with plenty of women before, this can’t be news to you. But I’ve never been photographed bringing a woman here, because I never have. This fact will not escape notice.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why won’t it escape notice? Or why haven’t I brought anyone here?”

  I shrug. “Either. Both.”

  “It’s just the kind of thing the twenty-four hour news cycle loves to pounce on, especially the celebrity-obsessed cycle. The media, for some reason, is just fascinated with me and my romantic involvements. Although, entanglements may be a better word.” A careless wave. “So, you can just be guaranteed that they’ll make a big deal out of the photos that are about to happen. And that’s gonna get back to Mom, which is all part of my plan to fuck with her stupid Machiavellian machinations in my life.”

  “Mockya-what-what?”

  He chuckles. “Machiavellian machinations. Ivy League bullshit for she’s a meddler, and I’m about to foil her plans.” He leans forward. “Whenever you’re ready, Liam.”

  A voice like a razor rasping over a whetstone. “Certainly, sir.”

  I shudder at that voice. “He sounds scary.”

  Paxton laughs. “The Boogieman has nightmares about Liam.”

  “That’s a good thing?”

  “Yes, it is,” Paxton says, still laughing. “He’s been with our family for twenty years. Loyal to the last breath, and scary as hell, but the nicest guy you’ll ever meet.”

  I see a black-suited body move to stand in front of the rear curbside passenger door, waiting. A beat, two. Paxton taps on the window with a knuckle, and it’s clearly a prearranged signal, because upon the tap, Liam swings the door open and steps to put himself between the gathering crowd of photographers—the noise, as he opens the door, washes into the interior of the once-quiet car like a wave, palpable. Paxton gracefully exits the car, straightens his shirt, tucks the front in behind his belt, brushes his hand through his hair to neaten it a little, then turns to smile and wave at the photographers.

  And then he leans down, smiles brightly at me, eyes dancing, teeth white, arm stretching his sleeve as he reaches in for me. His hand folds around mine, and I let him help me out of the car—my legs are shaky, knees wobbling. Not ready, not ready, not ready—

  Flashes blink and wink and strobe, and I realize I’m dressed two steps up from looking like a hobo. This is my debut, apparently, and I’m wearing my worst jeans and a baggy T-shirt—all because I didn’t like how much I liked the way Paxton was looking at me at my apartment.

  “Wish you’d mentioned that I’d be photographed today,” I murmur as I stand up. “I’d have dressed a little nicer.”

  “You’d have been more nervous than you already are about everything, and you didn’t need that pressure. Besides, when we’re ready for them to get good pictures of you, we’ll arrange it and you’ll be looking your best and you’ll be ready for it.” As promised, both he and Liam are standing between me and the photographers. “Ready?”

  He doesn’t wait for my answer, which would have been “no.” He gently but firmly pulls me into a walk, Liam ahead of us, head on a swivel.

  Liam: Medium height, seemingly of average build, graying black hair cut short and neat, clean-shaven, wearing a black suit and sunglasses. But despite his average size, he moves likes a predator, and exudes confidence and threat.

  Liam opens a door, Paxton ushers me through first and follows me inside. The noise from outside is immediately silenced, a hush from within the condo building’s foyer falling over us. I get a sense of brightness and airy elegance, and then we’re on a wood-paneled elevator, Liam on one side of me, Paxton on the other.

  I look up into Liam’s eyes. “Hi,” I say, inanely.

  He smirks, a ghost of a curve touching his lips. “Good afternoon, Miss Poe.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Call me Makayla, please.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  I snort. “It’s like that, is it?”

  Liam glances at Paxton, who just shrugs, lifting his palms facing up. “Doesn’t have to be, I guess.”

  I smile at him, now. “Better.” I eye him. “Did you go to British Butler School, too?”

  Liam arches an eyebrow. “Nope. I went to Iraq, by way of the United States Marine Corps Reconnaissance Training Company.”

  “Oh.”

  Paxton leans toward me, speaking in a stage whisper. “That means he made bad guys go bye-bye real good.”

  I glare at him. “Wow, Paxton, thanks so much for that translation. Whatever would I do without you?”

  “Just trying to be helpful.”

  The ride is brief, and then the
doors open to a short, wide, white-carpeted hallway with a single door at the end. Liam uses a keycard to open the door, preceding us both inside—Paxton waits until Liam returns with a signal which apparently means all is clear.

  Liam waits with his back to the open door, and Paxton leads me in to what I assume is a penthouse condo.

  White marble floor with gold veins glittering through it, white tray ceilings golden with hidden lights, art lining the walls, each piece lit from above. An elegant, arching, polished wood bench here, more art than furniture. A glimpse through open French glass doors into a masculine study: huge dark wood desk, stuffed-to-bursting bookshelves lining three walls, a deep leather chair in a corner with a polished bronze floor lamp, a paperback novel upside down on the cushion, waiting to be picked back up. The foyer/hallway opens to a formal sitting room opposite the study, the sitting room occupied by a grand piano, music books in several layers on the music rack, a shelf behind the piano stuffed with more sheet music and books, the fall lifted to leave the black and white keys exposed; unexpected, that piano, and even more unexpected is the evidence that it is used and is not merely decoration.

  Beyond the study and sitting room is an open-plan kitchen and living room, a hallway off the living room leading to the bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding doors form one side of the space, overlooking the river, and outside is an expansive flower garden terrace and outdoor living area.

  I stand in the transitional space between the kitchen and living room, turning in a slow circle, examine the condo; it’s masculine but not aggressively so, warm and inviting, lived-in but luxurious, expensive but not gaudy.

  My first instinct is to put on gloves and start cleaning, even though it’s already clean—it’s just not spotless to Camilla’s Beach by deBraun standards.

  My second instinct is to stop breathing and wonder what the hell I’m doing in a place like this.

  Paxton stands beside me, drapes an arm casually over my shoulders. “Welcome home.”

  13

  I don’t know where my duffel bag is—so many people have carried it for me at this point that I’ve lost track of where it is.

  Is Washington DC in the same time zone as Michigan?

  Where will I sleep? Does he expect me to sleep with him?

  Do I want to?

  He’s a man, and one with a media-verified high-octane libido, so if he’s not expecting me to sleep with him he’s at least hoping to and probably looking for ways to make it happen.

  The second question is trickier. Do I want to sleep with him?

  Maybe.

  No.

  Yes.

  I don’t know.

  Welcome home?

  Home.

  Home?

  I turn and step out of Paxton’s arm, heading for the terrace. But the door won’t open, and I get a little panicky trying to open it.

  I stop, fighting for breath, and bite my lip. “I need to get some air,” I rasp.

  Paxton steps beside me and unlatches something. “It was locked,” he says gently, sliding the door open. “Here.”

  “Thank you,” I bite out.

  The terrace is breathtaking. Flowers of all kind in full bloom, dwarf Japanese maples, carefully trimmed spruce shrubs, a profusion of greenery and flowers and trees I don’t know the names for, all artfully interwoven with stone flags and trickling streams and gurgling mini-waterfalls, hidden lights…it’s gloriously peaceful and calming, and I find a hand-carved wooden bench tucked into an alcove beneath the outspread arms of a cherry tree. Slumping down into it, I breathe in carefully; holding my breath, I straighten my spine, rest my hands on my knees, palms up, close my eyes, and slowly release my breath in a precisely measured four-count; I exhale to the same measured four-count, rest with my lungs empty for another four-count, and inhale once more. After a few repetitions, my pulse has slowed and my breathing is more normal. I can’t say the anxiety and turmoil in my brain have slowed, but it’s not dominating my physiological mechanisms anymore.

  “Do you have anxiety attacks a lot?” I hear him ask, and feel him beside me.

  I glance at him—he’s resting a buttock and thigh on the edge of the sculpted brick wall, which runs in a gentle, sinuous curve around behind the bench. I scoot over on the bench to make room for him, and he offers me a smile as he takes the spot.

  I shrug. “Sometimes.”

  “Frequently enough to have a breathing response,” he says.

  “I don’t know if it’s an actual medical anxiety attack or panic attack, I just know sometimes stress and worry get the better of me, and it’s hard to breathe and my heart goes a little haywire.” I don’t look at him. “I don’t get them, like, every day or anything, but when I do get them, they hit hard and fast.”

  “Where’d you learn the breathing technique?”

  “My supervisor at the hotel, Tanya.” I sort through what to say. “I was going through some personal stuff and had an attack or whatever you want to call it while I was at work. Tanya has had them for ages, and actually saw a therapist about them—Tanya’s therapist taught her, and she taught me, and I’ve used it since.”

  He hesitates. “So, why the anxiety attack now?”

  I frown at him. “Um, because I quit all three of my jobs, got rid of my apartment, left my mother, and moved across the country to a big city I’ve never been to, where I don’t know a single soul, and all with a man I barely know who I’m about to marry in less than four months.” I laugh, and know he can hear the note of hysteria in it. I suck in a breath, hold it, and then I feel a barrage of words tumble out of my mouth like an avalanche. “We’re not in love, we don’t know the first thing about each other, I’m terrible at relationships, you and I are from completely different worlds and I’m a fish out of water in the worst way and I have no idea how to navigate in your world and this life I’m suddenly living, and I can’t figure you out for the fucking life of me and worst of all I can’t decide if I even like you yet a part of me wants to sleep with you and I can’t decide if that would be the worst mistake I’ve ever made or the best thing ever because it’s been a really long time and I’m going crazy and why the hell did I just say that to you?”

  I shoot to my feet and half run half stumble away from Paxton and the bench to the other side of the terrace, resting my arms on the polished steel railing of the glass partition separating the terrace from the world below. I hang my head and tremble uncontrollably.

  I feel him approaching—for some idiotic reason, my entire body is hyper-attuned to his physical presence. Even facing away, with my eyes closed, I feel him behind me. He’s moving slowly, probably trying to figure out how to handle me.

  He leans against the railing beside me, his arm touching mine. “Makayla, listen to me.” I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to look into those absurdly compelling golden eyes. “Look at me, please.”

  I force my eyes to his. “What, Paxton?”

  He turns slightly, not quite facing me. “I thought I made this clear already, but I’ll try again. There is no pressure whatsoever to make this a real relationship if you don’t want to—whether physically or otherwise. I get that I’ve ripped you out of your life. Now, I’ll be honest here, and I know you’re going to say I’m being arrogant if not condescending, but…I feel like the life I’m about to give you, both in the temporary time we’re married and afterwards, is a pretty big step up from the life you were living before me. But still, you’ve left everything familiar, and that’s scary.” His eyes search me. “You seem like someone who will appreciate honesty, so here’s some blunt truth for you: Yes, I’m attracted to you. Yes, I’m a heterosexual male with a pretty wild libido, and you’re a beautiful woman about to share my home with me, so yes, certain…possibilities have entered my mind. Part of me is hoping something will happen between us. We’re two single adults cohabiting a home, and will soon be legally married, so it’s not like it’s a ridiculous notion for me to entertain.”

  He t
ouches a finger to my chin, keeping my gaze on his. “But—and you need to hear me and understand me very clearly—I make no claims, set no expectations, and will never demand anything.” His eyes heat, spark. “I can’t say I won’t test the waters with you, though, and I can’t say that if I sense you’re open to an advance that I won’t press it, because I sure as fuck will. But if—if—something happens between us, Makayla, it will be because you want it to. Because you allow it, if not seek it out yourself.”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that,” I murmur.

  “You don’t have to. I don’t need a response.” He straightens, pushing away from the railing. “I have some preliminary work to do before my meetings tomorrow morning.”

  “I need some alone time anyway.” I meet his eyes. “Something you probably need to know about me, now that we’re living together—I’m not exactly an introvert, per se, but I’m the kind of person who needs time alone to recharge and to process my emotions. So, if I tell you I need time alone, it’s really not about you or not wanting to be around you, it’s—”

  He grins. “You don’t have to explain that one to me, Makayla. I’m the same way.”

  I tilt my head. “Really?”

  He nods. “Absolutely.” He laughs, but it’s tinged with bitterness. “Which made boarding school and military school absolute hell, because there’s no such thing as alone time.”

  “You really got sent to military school?” I ask.

  He laughs again, this time less bitterly. “Yes, I really did. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” He waves at the house. “I’d offer you a tour, but it’s pretty self-explanatory. You saw my study; my bedroom is obvious, as are the guest bedrooms. Take your pick, and make yourself at home.”

  “What if I pick the master bedroom?” I ask, smirking, not sure why I feel the idiotic need to play with fire like this, especially so soon after an anxiety attack.