Page 102 of Married in Michigan

Holy shit. I just said I do.

Paxton answers the same question, but with no hesitation, and in a much stronger voice. He smiles as he says it, confident and proud.

We turn to face the crowd. “May I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Paxton deBraun,” the minister announces, and there is a loud cheer.

Paxton raises one hand, the other holding tightly on to mine. “Thank you for coming everyone, and please, join us at the Four Seasons at six thirty for the reception. See you all then!”

I blink at that announcement. “Six thirty?” I ask. “It’s just now two.”

He winks at me. “I know.”

“So what are we doing for the few hours?”

“Photographs, for one thing.” A long, serious look. “And something else, which you’ll just have to trust me about.”

I breathe carefully, searching him. Finally, I nod. “Okay, I trust you.”

He smiles brightly. “Good, thank you. For now, though, we have photographs.”

The next thirty minutes are spent wandering the grounds of St. Patrick’s, being followed by a photographer with four cameras hanging by straps from her body, directing us to stand this way and that, pose this way, now kiss, hold it, okay good now kiss his cheek… and so on, until I’m ready to scream.

Then, finally, the photographs are done, and it’s just me and Paxton alone in the church, with Liam standing at attention by the doors.

I sigh, wearily. “Well, husband—now what?”

He grins. “You’re not my wife yet, actually.”

I frown. “Um. I said I do, and we exchanged rings.” I wiggle my ring finger at him, so the massive double diamonds glint, and the platinum wedding band behind it glistens. “I think that makes us married.”

“Almost, but not quite.” He smiles at me. “There’s one more thing to do, yet.”

I frown harder. “I’ve not really attended that many weddings but I think, other than the reception, we’ve done everything.”

He just smiles even more vaguely. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

I sigh, nod, and tuck my hand in his arm. “Okay. Lead the way.”

The way turns out to be a black Mercedes sedan, and a drive through Manhattan to a nondescript glass-and-steel high-rise in Tribeca. Instead of the penthouse suite I imagined, Liam leads the way past even the penthouse, to the roof.

A small private helicopter is waiting, engine warming up, rotors moving gently. I blink at Paxton. “A helicopter?”

He nods. “Step one.”

“You’re being kind of mysterious,” I say, hunting his expression for a clue about what’s happening.

“Just trust me, okay? This is for you.”

“For me?”

He nods, a hand stuffed in his tuxedo pocket. “Yep. For you.”

I sigh, and climb into the helicopter, accepting his hand as assistance for the step up. The interior is as luxurious and sleek as the inside of the fancy armored Pullman limo, the seats quilted, hand-stitched white leather with built-in footrests and massage functions and heaters and cupholders, and a cooler for champagne, and expansive views in almost three hundred and sixty degrees.

Liam and Paxton climb in, buckle, and then the rotors spin up to speed and there’s a sense of weightlessness as we lift off. I hold Paxton’s hand tightly, but my mind is too busy trying to figure out where we’re going to be scared.

A ten-minute ride brings us to a private section of the airport, where one of the deBraun’s fleet of jets waits, engines running. I’m starting to get an inkling about what we’re doing, but don’t dare hope.

It’s a two-hour flight, which I spend restless, anxious. Despite having made this flight nearly every day for the last few weeks, it seems to take longer than ever.