Page 14 of Married in Michigan

“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 merelyveryprettyto 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 onmytime,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.”