Married in Michigan

by Jasinda Wilder

  I make a disgusted face. “Paxton! That’s so gross!”

  He shrugs. “This is Washington, babe. We’re all liars, cheats, thieves, manipulators—and worse: lawyers. If there’s one thing we’re all pros at, it’s sniffing out weakness. If you go into these meetings and events and dinners feeling like you’re just a hired girl, everyone will feel it, and they’ll chew you apart.” A hesitation. “And me with you.”

  “So then why am I here?” I ask. “Why me?”

  “How much truth you want?” he asks.

  “Make it real, Paxton. Never lie to me, and never sugarcoat it.”

  He nods. “I respect that, and I ask the same from you in return.” He tosses an olive in his mouth, washes it down with wine. “So here’s the truth. You asked me this already, and I answered truthfully. But you want to go deeper, obviously. You challenge me. You don’t fall for my shit. You’re not intimated by me, or by my mom.”

  “Wrong,” I cut in, laughing a little. “Your mom scares the poop out of me.”

  He laughs with me. “And well she should. In a world of barracudas, she’s a Great White shark.” He waves a hand. “But the point is, you don’t let that slow you down or make you feel like less. You’re in a whole new world, and you’ve got your head high, and you’re not just laying down and rolling over.” A hesitation. “Truth is, most women in your position would have slept with me already. You haven’t. You’ve got the grit to stick to your guns. You’ve got pride. You’re smart.”

  I hold up a finger. “Smart, yes. Educated, no.”

  He waves a hand, dismissing my distinction. “Not important—not as long as you project confidence.” He sips again. “You go into this dinner, and I want you to be the woman who snorted at my mother in the penthouse. The woman who tells me I’m an arrogant entitled prick.” A grin. “Just don’t actually call me that in front of Matt and Isla.”

  “If you act like one, I’ll call you one.” I sip my wine for the first time, and as I expect, it’s as rich and expensive tasting as I would expect from wine in a cut crystal decanter. “Can’t have just part of the attitude, Paxton.”

  He nods. “Well, I suppose that’s the risk I’m taking, huh?”

  And then Amanda is here—tall, black, willowy, lean, talkative, with a wild burst of natural hair, she’s an explosive flurry of activity and energy. She sits me in the chair in front of the vanity in my closet, fingers rifling and twisting expertly through my hair, fingering the ends, tugging on the curls, examining my scalp, scrunching handfuls this way and that, chattering nonstop—a flow of words that washes over me like a river around a boulder. It’s clear I’m not expected to respond, and I don’t.

  “Wow, you just have the most amazing hair! You obviously haven’t had a trim in a long time, though—I mean, look at these split ends, girl. No time for that today, but get it done. I’d even go several inches off.” She lifts my hair and tucks it under itself to mimic the look of shorter hair. “Like this, maybe. Not super short, unless you’re fierce enough to really pull that off, but at least a little bit to keep the ends healthy. Gotta moisturize more too, your shit is dry, honey. You’re doing great with your face, though. Nice healthy pores goin’ on…I’m guessing you don’t wear a lot of makeup, or not frequently. Wish I had that confidence, I’m telling you—I can’t go anywhere without my face on…”

  And so on like that as she kneads some kind of goop into my hair and plays with it seemingly at random, and then adds something else and keeps playing, and then suddenly my hair looks…incredible. Loose, bouncy, glossy, with perfect shape, falling around my face and neck to frame my features and draping against my shoulder blades just so.

  I gape, amazed. “What the hell did you do? I’ve spent hours trying to get it to look like this, and you did it in minutes.”

  She just grins. “Magic, honey.” She winks, tweaking a curl here and there. “I’ll show you next time, assuming Paxton gives me more of a heads-up.” She says this with a glare in the mirror at Paxton, who is leaning against the doorframe, half watching and half scrolling on his phone.

  Paxton just grins. “Too easy. You needed a challenge.”

  Amanda blows a raspberry. “This is a touch-up. Your girl here is motherfuckin’ gorgeous, and all-natural. Now, asking me to get her ready for the Met Gala on this time frame, now that would be a challenge.”

  She’s in front of me, now, blocking my view of myself in the mirror as she works her wizardry with brushes and pencils and sponges, each movement as precise and intentional as a painter’s. Another few minutes, and Amanda steps away with a dramatic flourish.

  I gasp. “Wow. I mean, just…holy shit!” I stare at myself in the mirror.

  When I apply makeup to myself, I usually end up looking like me, just with makeup on, and obviously so. This is…art. It’s seamless, and subtle. Emphasizing some features and downplaying others—making my already prominent cheekbones look sharper and more dramatic, my somewhat hard, square jaw look softer, my eyes look wider, deeper, more pronounced. My skin glows, almost as if lit from within.

  I meet her gaze, and it’s obvious she knows she’s a miracle worker. “Seriously. You have to show me how to do this.”

  She laughs. “Oh hell no. If I did that, I’d be out of a job. It ain’t magic if you can do it yourself, honey.”

  A few minutes later, Amanda is gone, with a hefty roll of cash tucked into her purse—I don’t know how much, and I don’t ask. Paxton spritzes a little more cologne on himself, tucks his dress shirt in, adds a black leather belt and a yellow tie to match my outfit, and then holds out his hand for me. To my own surprise, I take it and hold his hand on the way down to the garage. He opens the passenger door of the Porsche—this one is new, gleaming white with red leather interior. The engine purrs like a giant lion, and then snarls as we zip out of the garage and onto the street.

  The top is up, because of my hair, but it’s still an exhilarating ride, even with the slog through rush hour traffic. We reach the restaurant, an upscale, hush-hush, reservations a year in advance sort of place. A valet takes the car; Paxton steps out, takes my hand, and walks with me to the front doors, spiriting me inside before anyone has a chance to see us.

  He pauses before he goes in, however, glancing at me. “You ready for this?”

  I laugh, a little breathlessly. “Not even a little.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”

  His smile is dazzling, breathtaking, and somehow reassuring. His hand in mine is reassuring, and familiar. His huge, towering, sheltering presence beside me is…right.

  It shouldn’t be this way.

  I swallow hard, suck in a deep breath, hold it, let it out, and nod firmly. “Let’s go.”

  16

  The dinner date goes surprisingly smoothly. I discover I’m somewhat better at idle small talk than I thought I was—it turns out all you really need to do is smile and nod while the other person talks, make some sort of inane response, ask a leading question now and then, and so on in circles. Talk about clothing, exercising, movies—fortunately, my one pastime in my very limited free time has always been going to the movies. I save my change, stuff a bag of SkinnyPop in my purse, and go see movies. It’s my big splurge. So, I can talk movies all day long.

  I know nothing of politics and care even less, but I discover over the course of the next few weeks as I accompany Paxton on more dinner dates and lunches and cocktail mixers, that most of the women I’m expected to mingle with know about as much, and care about as much, as I do. They’re perfectly content to talk about makeup and purses and which car their husband recently bought them, and their most recent jewelry acquisition. I do a lot of listening, because talking about things someone else bought me just seems stupid and shallow and vain and materialistic—and my penchant for listening more than I talk quickly gains me a reputation in Paxton’s circle of friends and acquaintances as being a good listener.

  So, even better, I don’t even have to talk. Just listen, act like
I care about what they’re saying, and I’m good. Don’t have to pretend like I know as much as them, or that I’m as cultured or educated. I keep my mouth shut and let them make their own assumptions.

  Most of the events Paxton brings me to are fairly small, casual things. Dinners with a couple or two, meet some folks for drinks at a local bar and let the men talk politics and make backroom deals over high-priced whiskey while the women compare ten-thousand-dollar purses—lots of standing around in expensive heels, nursing the same glass of red wine for an hour, nodding until my neck is sore.

  Drive home.

  Hold hands with Paxton.

  Think about the kiss.

  Pretend I’m not attracted to him.

  Pretend I don’t like him.

  Pretend I’m not wondering what it would be like to sleep with him.

  I want to—a lot. But I refuse. I can’t. If I sleep with him, I’ll start thinking this is real. I can’t sleep with him precisely because I’m starting to actually LIKE him. I stand at his side sipping wine and listening, and I discover that he’s very, very, very smart. He’s passionate about his job—his headline issues are gun control, climate change, homelessness, social equality, and education reform. Which, honestly, is unexpected. I suppose, as in so many other ways, I went into getting to know him with certain assumptions in my mind. That he was just a shallow, vain, arrogant, entitled brat.

  He’s so much more. He’s not in politics for the power or the fame or the influence, and certainly not for the money. It’s clear he’s in it to make changes. Because he cares.

  I don’t WANT to like him. I want to keep pretending he’s just a spoiled rich white boy with a big ego. But he’s not.

  Every night we go home, we linger in the kitchen until late, talking. We sit at the island and share a snack and a nightcap, and…Paxton unloads.

  I’m not sure when it started. At first, it was just a chance to kick off my shoes and get a little snack before bed, and somehow it’s turned into my favorite part of the day. Even if we don’t have an event or a dinner, he works late, and that’s his time to unwind. Pour some whiskey, have some ice cream or nachos, and vent.

  He just wants me to listen, I’ve realized. I don’t have to follow what he’s talking about.

  Like tonight.

  The wedding is in a month; I’m scheduled for my dress fitting tomorrow, and Paxton’s bill—meant to establish baseline funding for research on homelessness and how to solve it—is getting voted on. He’s been working on this bill for months now; every dinner date, every cocktail mixer has been focused on pumping up support and getting votes. He’s mega stressed.

  I’m freaking out myself, because I’m getting fitted for my wedding dress tomorrow—alone. There’s a selection to choose from, and Julie will be there to help me decide, and then it gets fitted and altered, and it’s just me because I have no friends, no family here in DC.

  I haven’t seen Mom in almost two months, and I’m dying inside. I call her every day, or nearly, but it’s just not the same as seeing her, sitting with her, holding her hand.

  What if she’s deteriorating? What if something happens and I’m not there? Paxton bought me a cell phone, and I’ve given the hospice my number with instructions to call me if anything comes up. But it’s not the same.

  I have to see her. I have to be there with her. She has bad days and good days, and she needs me on both.

  And I’m not there.

  I’m here, in DC, playing dutiful fiancé to a wealthy, influential, rising political star.

  There have been reports of me, some blurry photographs taken from a distance by desperate paparazzi, but Paxton has been careful to make sure the media has no clue who I am. There are rumors, of course. The buzz blogs are going nuts with speculation as to whom America’s most eligible and desirable bachelor is making the DC rounds with. There are reports, descriptions, lies, truths…the rumor mill is churning. Paxton is avoiding his mother’s phone calls, which are nonstop, now.

  Paxton is talking, but for once, I’m unable to focus. He notices.

  “Makayla?” His voice cuts through my mental scrum.

  I blink at him. “Huh?”

  He laughs ruefully. “You’re somewhere else tonight.”

  I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m not being a very good listener tonight.”

  He tilts his head. “You know, I’ve been venting to you every night for weeks now, and I’m realizing I do all the talking.”

  I chuckle. “You’ve never had anyone to vent to, have you?”

  He shakes his head, swirling ice and whiskey. “No, not really.” A glance at me. “You?”

  I shrug. “My mom, usually.” A pause. “But that’s a tricky situation.”

  “Why is it tricky?”

  Nope, not ready to go there with him. It’s too close, too vulnerable. I shake my head. “It’s a long story.”

  He glances at his watch. “I’ve got time.” A warm, dizzying smile. “Talk to me, Makayla.”

  What to say? “I just…I miss her. I haven’t seen her in two months, and that’s the longest I’ve ever been away from her. She has some health issues, too, and I just…I worry about her.”

  “Health issues?” He seizes on that, of course.

  I stifle a groan. “I just need to go see her.”

  He waves a hand, the dismissive wave that says consider it handled. “Go see her, then.”

  “I’m picking the dress tomorrow and getting fitted.” I rub my forehead. “And then there’s the dinner with Dom and Catalina Wednesday, and cocktails Thursday…”

  I know his schedule, now.

  He frowns. “Go see her.”

  “But this is why I’m here.”

  He shakes his head. “I can manage without you for a few nights.” A strange, unsettling smile. “I did manage for a while, you know.”

  I laugh. “I know. It’s just…this is why I’m here. It’s why we’re together.”

  He nods, shrugs. And then his eyes find mine and there’s an odd light in them, an unsettling openness. “I managed without someone for years…my whole life. I was fine. I didn’t want a wife.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Weird how quickly I’ve gotten used to you being there. How much I’ve come to rely on you being here with me.”

  I swallow hard. “I don’t do anything.”

  “You do more than you know.” He looks down at his glass, swirls. “Just you being there helps me mentally, somehow. Like, I know you’re there. If a conversation is becoming something I need an escape from, you’re there. You give the women something to talk about besides my love life, and honestly you make me look better with the men.”

  I frown at that. “How so?”

  He smiles, one that says You really don’t realize? “Because you’re so fucking stunning.”

  I shiver, shrug a shoulder, shake my head. “I’m out of place. I don’t fit.”

  “Which is exactly why they’re all smitten with you.”

  “No one is smitten, Paxton.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “At cocktails last night, the guy I was talking to most of the night, Mick Branson? He couldn’t stop talking about you. How his wife was girl-crushing on you, and how he couldn’t figure out what a ten like you is doing with a five like me.”

  I snort, my trademark blast of sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’m the ten, you’re the five. Good one, Paxton.”

  He frowns. “You think it’s the opposite?”

  I shrug again. “I mean, no. I don’t think I’m a five. I know I’m pretty. It’s mostly my build, but I know I’m okay. I’m comfortable and confident in who I am and what I look like, so don’t think it’s self-deprecation. But you’re way out of my league, Paxton. You’re the elite. Women want you, and men want to be you. You have everything. It’s fucking annoying, actually. I wanted to assume it’s because you’re rich and beautiful, that you’re shallow and vapid. But you’re not. You smart and you genuinely care.” I’m fully aware of how bitter I sound.

 
He frowns at me, head tilted, eyes searching. “That really bugs you, huh?” he says, half-laughing.

  “Yes!” I shout. “It does! You can’t have literally everything going for you! It’s not fair.”

  He doesn’t laugh with me. “I don’t have everything.”

  I eye him speculatively. “Oh? And what are you missing?”

  He takes a sip of whiskey, and doesn’t answer for a while. Eventually, still staring into his glass, he answers. “More than you know, Makayla.”

  Something in the silence stops me from asking what he means.

  After what feels like several minutes of silence, he finishes his whiskey, pushes his empty ice cream bowl away and slides off the stool. He makes it as far as the hallway before he stops and turns back to me.

  His expression is opaque, unreadable. “I’ll drive myself tomorrow. Liam will take you to the fitting, and I’ll have the jet on standby for you, with John on the other end waiting to take you to see your mom.”

  “Paxton, it’s fine. I can get a ticket on my own.”

  He laughs. “Well, yeah, I’m sure you could, but why would you?”

  I sigh. “ It just feels weird.”

  “What does?”

  “Using your things. Spending your money on clothes and purses, taking your family’s private cars and jets, using your drivers.” I shrug, helpless to explain it. “I don’t know how to cope with it. It’s all too much.”

  He walks back over to me. Stands over me, serious and brooding. “You’ve done more for me in the last few weeks than you’ll ever know, Makayla. I know for a fact that I’ve got votes from people simply because of how their perception of me has changed just by having you there.” He tugs on a spiral of curly hair. “So take the jet, okay? It’s the least I can do.”

  He turns on his heel and vanishes into his room without a backward glance, his shoulders rounded, hunched.

  He’s been moody, lately.

  Anxiety over the wedding? I know I’m feeling it, and I don’t have a career and a reputation on the line, nor millions and billions of dollars and invaluable personal, business, and political connections.