Page 22 of Married in Michigan
I laugh. “That’ll do it. But…70s porn? Really?”
He shrugs. “I mean, for a bunch of high school boys locked in a boys-only school, where our every move was watched and judged and criticized, that was a major score.”
I shake my head. “Why am I here, Paxton?”
He hesitates. “I thought you could use a day off.”
I snort. “Hardly. What was it you said earlier? Pull the other one?”
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly seeming hesitant. You said you needed a shower. We have seven full bathrooms, so…pick one.”
I laugh outright at that. “Thanks for the offer, sort of.”
He frowns. “Sort of?”
I wave a hand around my head. “You see this? Tamingthistakes a lot of products I guarantee you don’t have here.” I pluck at the strap of my sports bra—which, now that I’m alone with him in this decadent, extravagant house, I’m starting to feel self-conscious about being clad in nothing but a sports bra and booty shorts. “Then there’s the fact that I don’t have clean clothes here. And no, there’s nothing of yourmother’swhich I would either wear or fit in, assuming I’d feel comfortable borrowing clothing from my boss—not just myboss, but the owner of the entire hotel.” I gesture with both hands, at the house around us. “Then there’s the fact that there’s no chance inhellI’m gonna take a shower when I’m alone in a strange house with a man I don’t know.”
He opens his mouth to get a word in, but I bulldoze over him.
“So, Paxton. You nearly hit me with your five-million-dollar Ferrari, force me into a day off which I neither wanted nor needed nor could afford, and then you bring me to your parents’ house when I’m just out of the gym, half-naked, sweaty, tired, thirsty, hungry, and want nothing but a shower and few minutes alone. I say again—what…do…you…want?”
He scratches his head. “What I want—what I need, what I’m hoping you’ll agree to, is something I can’t just come out with. So, how about I make us some lunch, fix us a drink, and then we’ll get down to business.”
I cross my arms under my breasts, which was a mistake, because it plumps them up and draws his eyes to them, and even in this tight-as-hell sports bra, there’s no hiding what Mama gave me in the breasticular region. Which is…alot.
His eyes rake over my plumped breasts, over my dark caramel skin swooping down in a deepVinto the white fabric of the bra, down my flat belly to my bell-curve hips. And then back up to my eyes, in a valiant attempt to pretend like he wasn’t brazenly ogling me.
I narrow my eyes. “How about you just tell me what you want so I can tell you no, and then you take me home. Or better yet, call me an Uber.”
He groans, head tipping back as his hands rake through his hair. “You aresofucking difficult, you know that?”
“You basically kidnapped me, Paxton. I’m supposed to be easy-going and cooperative?”
“Kidnapped you? Really?” He turns away, stalks angrily across the kitchen to a side table along the wall opposite a huge white sectional couch; he pours a couple fingers of what I assume is hideously expensive scotch or whiskey, turns back to me with the glass in hand.
I wait, but no offer is forthcoming. I fake a cough, and arch an eyebrow at him, pretending to drink from a nonexistent tumbler. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just have this nice glass of nothing.”
He makes a puzzled face. “You drink scotch?’
I shrug. “Yeah? Is that weird or something?”
“Yeah, it is. I mean, I was about to get you some wine. I wasn’t going to leave you hanging.”
I shake my head. “Presumptions, Mr. deBraun. They’ll get you every time.”
He hands me the glass in his hand, pours another, and then gestures at the wall of glass. “Would you like to sit on the deck with me?”
I shrug. “I’d rather be at home with my pineapple curls conditioner and my spongy-poof, but I guess.”
He blinks at me, and I’m guessing I probably don’t want to know what went through his head at that moment. Something inappropriate that would put me off my game, and right now, my game is all that’s keeping me sane. I’mwayout of my element right now, in this place with this man.
He shakes his head to clear it of the presumably scandalous thoughts he was having about me, and slides open a section of the floor-to-ceiling glass, leading the way out onto a multitiered deck—stairs lead up to sections of deck on the two stories above this one, and another set of stairs lead in a winding descent down to the beach below. This part, though, off the kitchen and living room, is the main attraction. There’s no railing, just sections of glass, creating an unbroken view of Grand Traverse Bay. The wind blows, bringing the scree of seagulls.
Paxton sits at a wrought iron table, slumping to sprawl with kingly elegance in a throne-like wrought iron chair padded with a thick cushion, one leg hanging over the armrest, an elbow on the table, crystal tumbler of expensive-smelling whisky clutched lazily in one hand.
His eyes search mine, no lust or lecherous thoughts, now. Rather, it’s apparent he’s very carefully considering what he’s about to say. So, I wait. He sips, swallows; I do the same. I, however, cough and wheeze, staring with amazement at the liquid in the glass.
“What isthis?”