I sigh sadly. “Well, at least one of us can say that.”
“You can’t?”
A shake of my head. “Hell no. Mine abandoned us when I was born, and it’s done a number on me in a lot of ways, some of which I probably haven’t ever identified. Therapy ain’t free, and I’ve never had the time for it even if I could afford it.”
We sit in silence for a minute, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Eventually, Paxton sits up straight and smiles. “Well. Enough of the heavy shit. You hungry?”
As if on cue, my stomach growls. “Clearly that’s a yes,” I say.
“In or out?”
“Huh?”
“Eat here, or go out?”
I shrug. “Um…I don’t know. I’m fine either way.”
He frowns. “I’m not choosing.”
I sigh. “I honestly have no frame of reference, Paxton. I eat at the cafe in the morning, and dinner at the hotel in the evening. Occasionally I’ll pick up something on the way home, but not usually. So if you have some fancy chef waiting to make a fifteen-course meal, go for it. If you have standing reservations at the most upscale restaurant in DC, fine.”
This gets me a laugh. “It’s dinner, Makayla. You’re taking this far too seriously.”
I can’t help but laugh, because he’s right. “Okay, whatever. Let’s eat out, then. But you pick the location.”
“The question becomes a matter of fancy versus casual.”
I gesture at my outfit—the loose, ill-fitting jeans and wrinkled, baggy boys’ crewneck T-shirt. “I’d think this makes it pretty obvious.”
He smirks. “We could go shopping first.”
My stomach growls again. “No, I’m too hungry to wait. I haven’t eaten anything but some yogurt today.”
He frowns, gesturing impatiently at the kitchen. “You should’ve eaten something, in that case. The kitchen is fully stocked with just about anything you could possibly think of.”
I sigh. “Paxton, look, I’m just not there yet. This doesn’t feel like home—it feels like I’m your guest, and I’m not comfortable just poking around your kitchen and helping myself to your food. Plus, you probably only have shit like caviar and some kind of fancy salad.”
Paxton cackles. “Do I seem like someone who eats that kind of bullshit?” He stands up. “Come on. I know you have nicer clothes than that in what you brought with you—the only reason you wore that is because you were embarrassed that I caught you in your sexy little pj's.” His eyes reflect his enjoyment of the memory. “So, go change into nicer jeans and a sexier top, and we’ll go get some food.” He pauses. “Real food. No fancy salad, unless that’s your thing.”
I stand up and follow him, grumbling under my breath: “Sexy little pj's my ass. You just liked the free show.”
It was supposed to be under my breath, but he obviously heard me. “I admit I didn’t mind that portion of the program,” he says, holding the door and meeting my eyes.
I have no response for that, so I just go to my new bedroom and change—nicest jeans, nicest top. Meaning, the dark-wash jeans have a liberal amount of stretch to them so they fit more like leggings, which does wonders for my thighs and booty, which are both pretty damned wondrous, between genetics and exercise. The top is a tight, filmy ivory camisole over my one good bra, with a lightweight, pale coral three-quarter sleeve sweater over it. Paired with my one set of decent heels, and a quick updo of my hair and some light makeup, I feel…not fancy, but acceptable for a dinner out on the town in the company of a man as wealthy, sexy, and influential as Paxton deBraun.
Paxton is sitting at the island, perched on a barstool, sipping sparkling water from a green glass bottle, reading a paperback. When he hears me emerge, he turns on the stool, sees me, and slowly sets down the book, eyes widening slightly.
“Damn, Makayla. Maybe we don’t need to go shopping after all.”
I snort. “This is my one nice outfit.”
He shakes his head. “Well…damn. You look amazing.” He doesn’t seem to be blowing smoke up my ass either, because his eyes rake over me several times, lingering at my hips and chest more than once before latching onto my eyes. “You ready?”
I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”
He eyes me again. “Don’t you need a purse?”
I shrug, holding up my little wristlet that contains my ID, debit card, and a small amount of folded-up emergency cash. “Nah. No keys, no phone, and I’m not a touch up my makeup kind of girl. This is all I really need.”
He grins. “Minimal. I like it.” He digs in his pocket, withdraws his cell phone, and tosses it on the counter. “Let’s go pick a ride.”
I follow him to the elevator. “You’re leaving your phone?”
He nods, lifting his left wrist on which is a large black rectangular smartwatch. “Any of my people need me, I’ll get notifications here. If they don’t have my personal number, they don’t need to get ahold of me.”
We take the elevator down to an underground garage; the collection here is a tiny fraction of what’s at the house in Michigan: a modern Porsche convertible, a Range Rover SUV, and a classic motorcycle with a sidecar, along with a couple hulks covered by white drop cloths.
I eye him. “Well?
He stares at me. “Well what?”
“I’m waiting for the inevitable lecture on the cars.”
He chuckles. “These are just practical everyday vehicles. Porsche for sunny weather, Rover for nasty stuff.” He gestures at the motorcycle and sidecar. “That’s the only piece of any real interest. It’s a World War Two era military motorcycle and sidecar, which saw actual action in the European theater, and was later restored by a company in Florida. It’s a recent acquisition, and I’ve never actually taken anyone out in the sidecar before.”
I can’t help a grin from spreading across my face. “This seems as good a time as any, right?”
He stares at me in disbelief for a long moment, waiting. When nothing further is forthcoming, he laughs. “Wait, really?”
The boyish excitement in his voice is…well, it’s honestly fucking adorable. And it makes me grin so hard my cheeks hurt.
“Yeah, really. It sounds like fun. I’ve never been on a motorcycle, and I’ve always wanted to try it.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You do have a motorcycle license, right?”
An arrogant roll of his eyes. “Obviously. A license, as well as evasive and defensive driving training by a professional motorcycle racer.” He indicates the sidecar. “I guess I assumed you’d want to arrive in style, in a car, rather than something like that. A sidecar isn’t exactly the quietest or smoothest ride, and it’ll wreak hell on your hair.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty much the opposite of high maintenance, Paxton. And this is dinner, not a gala, right? So…I’m up for a little adventure.”
His grin broadens, as if he can’t quite believe his luck. As if the women he’s used to dating wouldn’t be caught dead in a motorcycle sidecar. His excitement is palpable, and contagious.
There are two helmets, one hanging from the handlebar of the motorcycle, the other on the seat of the sidecar. Both are vintage-looking, and knowing Paxton, actually vintage. I realize I’ll have to tie my bun lower down to get the helmet on properly, so I let it loose from the high top bun and retie my hair down at my nape, and then strap on the helmet.
Paxton watches all this, a grin on his face.
I can’t help but laugh again. “This is really exciting for you, isn’t it?”
He nods. “Very. I never expected to have anyone around who’d be willing to ride in the sidecar. I could probably compel Liam to climb in for a quick ride, but that wouldn’t be the same.”
“Well, you’re welcome…for being open to adventures,” I say, climbing into the sidecar.
He laughs. “And it will be an adventure.” He grins as he swings a leg over the saddle and straps his helmet on. “Full disclosure, here—riding in a sidecar is a whole different ballgame, and while I’ve had practice with i
t, I’m by no means an expert.”
I eye him. “So should I be worried?”
“Nah. Just letting you know. It could be a little…rough, at first. It just handles totally different, due to the unequal distribution of weight and wheels and all.”
He starts the motorcycle, and it comes to life with a rattling snarl, and then idles with a smooth, even chug. A glance at me, a grin, and then we’re off. Slow, at first, heading up the ramp to the exit, where a sensor of some kind detects us, opens a garage door, and then we’re out in the reddish-gold light of evening. A quick, leaning right turn into traffic, and then I’m pushed back into the seat as Paxton accelerates. The feeling of open-air and speed and connection to the world around me and the road beneath me is ten times what it was in the little Porsche—exhilarating, wildly exciting. I whoop loudly as he opens the throttle and we zip forward.
We can’t go very fast, because traffic is pretty thick, it being evening rush hour in DC, but it’s still fun, and Paxton clearly knows side roads and alleys to get around the worst of traffic—many of which are only really accessible to us because of the fact that we’re so small. It’s a sadly short ride—as we soon pull down a narrow street and into a small parking lot. I wasn’t sure where I was expecting him to take me, but this doesn’t fit any of my expectations. It’s a little pub off the main road, called The Sovereign. All dark wood and leather-topped stools with brass buttons, red-cushioned high-top chairs, cozy booths ensconced in thick, dark wood panels, filled with young, well-dressed people conversing in low tones under the exposed wood beams and old-world rustic light fixtures.
He gets us a quiet corner booth, orders a beer for himself and eyes me expectantly. I just shrug. “I have no clue. I don’t really drink beer all that often.” I gesture at Paxton. “Order for me. You clearly have more refined taste than I do.”
He eyes me speculatively, considering, and then orders me…something. I don’t know what. Something with a fancy name. When it comes, it turns out to be a tasty and refreshing light lager, and we sip in silence as we peruse the menu—elegant takes on classic hearty fare. He gets a burger, and I, on a whim, decide to go way outside my comfort zone and try duck leg confit.
At my selection, Paxton grins. “Good choice. It’s excellent.”
“Trying something new,” I say.
It’s a surprisingly low-key and highly enjoyable experience. We drink good beer, eat good food, and our conversation is easily endless—mostly due to Paxton’s enviable skill as a conversationalist. He can talk with equal ease about nearly everything—we cover sports, music, movies, Hollywood star drama, and he relates a few entertaining stories from the Hill. Nothing heavy, nothing deep. Just me and him, a meal, and light conversation.
It’s too easy.
I like it way too much.
I notice too many things—the effortless elegance in the way he eats, the gracefulness of his movements, the way his jaw flexes as he chews, the sparkle in his eyes as he tells something funny about a gaffe made by one of his colleagues. The way his arms stretch his sleeves, the cords in his forearms. The way he occasionally brushes his thick dark hair back from his head in a carelessly sexy gesture that leaves my heart palpitating weirdly.
He has three beers by the time he’s finished eating, and takes his time finishing the third after the end of his meal, and I notice he’s careful to liberally punctuate his sips of beer with swigs of ice water. Considering we’re returning home in a motorcycle with a sidecar, which he’s admitted he’s not an expert in operating, is very reassuring.
As for me…the duck leg confit is so fucking good I have to restrain myself from making too many moans of delight. Being unused to beer, I probably drink the first couple a little too fast. The third goes down even more smoothly, and I’m not drinking water with it.
But fuck it, right? If I can’t cut loose a little now, then when?
Paxton’s third beer seems to last forever, while I’m on my…fifth? Conversation seems to loop and circle and drift, and his attention never wavers. It’s a weird feeling, for me, being the utter center of someone’s attention. He glances at his watch a couple times, but immediately dismisses it without a second glance or taking his attention from me.
After I don’t know how long, he finally tosses back the last swallow of beer and slides the empty glass aside. “You want another?”
I shake my head, and realize I’m a little wobbly. “Um, no. Probably shouldn’t.”
No grin, this time, just an intense, opaque smolder, golden-brown eyes regarding me without blinking, without giving away anything but raw intensity. “You sure?”
When I stand up, I do indeed wobble a little, and glance sheepishly at Paxton. “Yeah, I’m good.”
A small smile. “Ready to head home, then?”
“Yeah, just let me pee first.”
It doesn’t even hit me until I’m in the stall how easy “head home” slid through my mind. Maybe it’s the beer, but the panic isn’t as strong, this time.
Paxton is waiting by the front door—and he’s just waiting. No impatience, no checking his watch, just content to stand and watch the patrons in the pub, and wait for me.
He doesn’t notice me right away, and it gives me a chance to get a look at him without him knowing I’m staring.
And damn, the man is beautiful. Rugged, but elegant. Just enough stubble, but still clean cut. Powerfully built without being bulky. Lean, but not skinny. Well-dressed, but not flashy. And fuck me, that hair. So thick, so richly brown, artfully messy.
I swallow hard. Down girl.
Rein it in.
But…why? Why should I? I’m going to marry the man in a little more than three months. Why shouldn’t I get something out of it? He’s an expert at casual, and I’m certainly not about to fall in love. It would just be a little bit of fun. Something to make a fake-but-real marriage a little better for the both of us.
I know it wouldn’t be a thing, and he certainly does too. A marriage of convenience doesn’t have to be a joyless, sexless business arrangement, right?
So why am I hesitating? He’s sexy. He wants me. God knows why—I’m a far cry from the glamorous goddesses he usually dates.
I’m quiet as we get back on the road—the rush hour traffic has thinned, so the ride is much faster, which means it’s even more fun, but shorter.
I spend most of the ride trying not to look at Paxton, and trying not to continue the endlessly circular arguments for and against sleeping with him.
The problem is, the more I try not to think about it, the more I end up thinking about. And the more I think about it, the fewer compelling arguments I can come up with for why I shouldn’t sleep with him.
He’s still just as arrogant as ever, and just as entitled, and just as much of an insufferable know-it-all, but there’s also a lot more to him.
I mean, yeah, he’s damned beautiful, but is that enough of a reason? God, it’s not just his looks, though. It’s the way he looks at me. The intensity in his eyes. The spark and the heat, the curiosity. Like I’m a gift-wrapped enigma he wants to open up and figure out.
Do I want to be unwrapped and figured out? Do I want to know what those hands can do? They’re big, strong, clean, clever.
What can his mouth do?
I got a glimpse of what hides under his clothing…and I wonder about that, too.
We arrive back in the underground garage, and the elevator ride back up is quiet. It’s not exactly late, but it’s been a crazy day and I’m in a weird place emotionally, as well as in a new place physically, and I’m tired.
Suddenly drained.
The alcohol is fading, and I’m still a little unsteady, but that could be exhaustion.
I realize we’re standing in his foyer, just outside his study, neither of us speaking, just looking at each other. His eyes search me. More of that speculative, curious heat. A hint of amusement. Desire.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “This is weird for me.”
>
“What is?”
“Going on a date with a beautiful woman, bringing her here, and then…not knowing what to do next.”
An unexpected admission, from him. Oddly vulnerable for someone so obviously used to being in control, in command, taking what he wants and never thinking of the consequences.
“What to do next?” I breathe.
“With you.” He pauses. “With…us.”
“Us.”
“I’m trying to figure you out. What you want, what you don’t want.”
I sniff a laugh. “Yeah, well, makes two of us.”
He scrubs his stubble. “I guess that explains it.”
“I’m not playing games or intentionally trying to be confusing.”
“I know.”
“This is just…new. And confusing.”
“I know.”
I lick my lips. Alcohol-loosened lips let slip truths: “I’m trying to figure you out, too.”
“What is there to figure out?” he asks.
“You.”
He smirks. “I’m not hard to figure out.”
“Yes you are.”
“No, I’m not.” He sidles closer. “I’ve got nothing to hide, Makayla. My shit is all out in the open. Wanna know something? Ask. You may not always like the answer, but you’ll always get the truth.”
“So what is it you want from me?”
Closer. Until I have to tilt my head back to look up into his golden-brown lion’s eyes. Until my chest brushes his. “Everything.”
I gulp, swallow a lump of air and nerves past a dry throat. “What’s that mean?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not a tell you thing, that’s a show you thing.”
“I saw you. Some of you. In the hotel. Before you were awake. I saw…it. Not all of it, but enough.” I don’t have a single damn clue why the hell I’m saying this.
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