Page 23 of Married in Michigan

He waves a hand, rubs his brow with the effort of recall. “Balvenie, I think. ”

“It’s incredible.”

A slow smile crosses his face. “Show you a garage valued in the tens of millions, you don’t blink an eye. Give you a glass of whiskey, and you’re impressed.”

I take another sip, savoring it. “My first serious boyfriend was a few years older than me. Like, ten or so. He, um…he liked whiskey, and since I was young and trying to impress him, I got into it too. Developed a taste for it on my own.” I shrug. “Of course, my idea of a treat on a night out is a glass of Red Label on the rocks, because that’s all I can afford.”

“Red Label.” His snort of derision is no less arrogant and dismissive than I expect; he wiggles his glass slightly. “This is Balvenie Fifty Year. Thirty-seven grand a bottle, extremely rare.”

I cough in shock, slowly lowering the glass to the table. “I’m drinking the equivalent of a month’s rent, then, at least.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. I read somewhere that a hotel got a bottle once, and charged twenty-six hundred per glass.”

I shake my head; push the glass back to him. “You’d better keep that.”

He shakes his head, pushes it back. “It’s just whisky, Makayla, for god’s sake. There’s a whole cask of twenty-year-old Dalmore in the fucking basement. Don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

I blink at him and take a careful, measured sip of the amber liquid, which burns like velvet sunfire, the expansive taste exploding on my tongue and in my throat and blossoming in my belly. “Why’s it already weird?”

“Do you deny that this is an unusual situation?”

I shrug. “I’ve never been kidnapped by a rich asshole before, so I wouldn’t know if it’s unusual. It’s certainly out of the ordinary for me.”

He sighs. “Goddammit, Makayla, for the last time, I didn’tkidnapyou.”

“You may not have, like, tossed me in the back of a van and hogtied me, but you certainly didn’t leave me many options.”

He groans, sitting forward. “If I’d left you an option, would you have given me the time of day?”

I snort, shake my head. “Nope.”

He gestures with a hand. “Well, there you go.”

I frown. “What does that mean, ‘well, there you go?’ Like it’s the obvious solution to a woman not wanting to talk to you.”

“You’re not making this easy.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Am I supposed to be?” I take another sip, but I know I have to be careful because this shit is potent and I have a feeling I’m going to need my wits about me.

“It would be nice if you did.” He’s earnest, genuine, and that makes it all the funnier.

I laugh, shaking my head at his clueless hubris. “Seeing as I still have no idea what it is you want, or why I’m here, I’m not even sure how to make it easier on you, or what I’m even supposed to be making easier.”

He groans again, rakes a hand through his hair, and takes a long sip of his scotch, then sets it aside and turns to face me, elbows on his knees, eyes on mine. Laser focus, all business, no humor, no arrogance, this a Paxton deBraun I think few ever see: open, showing his emotions.

Namely, nerves, if not outright fear.

Yet, he takes a deep breath, reaches forward and takes my hands in his. Both of them, holding my hands in his gently, his eyes piercing and deep.

“I want you to marry me, Makayla.”

6

There is a long, stunned silence.

I stare at him, unable to breathe or to blink or think or move. When I’m certain he’s not being funny, I carefully set the tumbler on the table, extract my hands from his, and stand up.

“And we’re done here. I’ll walk home.” I head for the door, and make it as far as putting my hands on the handle of the sliding glass door.