Page 31 of Married in Michigan

Everything is for her, because she’s mymom.

but…Iamcurious about Paxton.

His family, his life—the lifestyle.

What it’s like to not always be short a few hundred or a few thousand dollars.

A break from the struggle.

Play at being fake married, get a divorce, take the settlement, and put Mom in a better home. Pay up front for a year or two at a time. Get the best treatments, maybe even see if there’s some kind of experimental treatments that could heal her. I know they don’t exist, but as long as I’m dreaming, right?

Mom nods when I give her my promise, and then I have to help her get repositioned in bed, prop her up and adjust her so she’s comfortable. The effort exhausted her totally, and within minutes, she’s asleep.

I go home, and wrestle with my decision. I know I’ve already made it, but I’m still trying to convince myself I’m being stupid, that there has to be a better way. That I don’t want this.

Who would want it? Luxury lifestyle aside, I’m letting myself be used. I’m putting myself in what is sure to be an impossible situation, with a man I don’t know, who I’m not sure I like at all, or can even stand, honestly.

Yet, as dawn approaches and I haven’t slept a wink, I know there’s no way out of this. I’ve made my choice, and I’m just going to have to accept that I’m the biggest fool who ever was.

8

Sunday morning. Nine a.m., six days after the talk with Paxton on his parents’ deck. Usually, I have to work on Sunday mornings, but I traded shifts with a coworker at the breakfast place because she needed the extra hours, so I’m left with a rare morning off to myself.

I’m dressed in my bum-around-the-house pj's—faded red cotton shorts that only sort of cover my backside, and a tank top with the logo of the pub I serve drinks at in the evenings, which is too small around the chest, leaving half my breasts bared on either side.

But it’s just me in my little carriage house apartment, so who cares?

I’m sipping on a mug of hot black coffee, spooning some Greek yogurt into my mouth, and flipping through a magazine, enjoying the feeling of not having to be anywhere for several hours.

My apartment is a one-bedroom, one-bathroom loft over a workshop garage, out behind the home of the owner of the breakfast place. It’s in a higher-end neighborhood, within walking distance of the hotel, the cafe, the pub, and my gym, and I get a good deal on rent. But, it’s tiny. Galley kitchenette, no dishwasher, electric stove and range, three steps across the entire living room, a bathroom so tiny I can sit on the toilet and touch all four walls and still not have room to shut the door if I’m on the toilet, and a bedroom so tiny my twin bed takes up the entire space, so most of my clothes are kept in clear bins I store under my bed frame, because the closet is too small for actual hangers and there’s no room for a dresser.

But it’s mine, and that’s what counts.

I’m shocked into stupefied blankness by a hard, fast knock on my door—which is accessed by a staircase around the side of the garage.

“Makayla?” A deep, impatient male voice. “Makayla!”

I could ignore him.

I’m tempted to. I don’t want to talk to him, see him—I don’t want to be around him, because that will mean telling I’m dumb enough to agree to his cockamamie plan.

I’m in the act of standing up when Paxton waltzes through the door. I sit back down, snorting in irritation, and gesture at him. “By all means, come on in.”

He nods. “Thanks.” Missing the sarcasm entirely, it seems. He spies the coffee pot, and the drying mat with my other two mugs on it, and pours himself a mug of coffee, and sits down on my couch beside me.

“Yes, Paxton, please, help yourself to my coffee.” I glare at him. “This may be a foreign concept to you, I realize, but it’s fairly customary, I think, to wait for permission before entering someone’s home, and to ask before taking their coffee.”

He blinks at me blankly for a moment, and then waves a hand. “Whatever. Sorry.” He takes a sip of coffee, and then pivots on the couch to face me. “I need an answer. Mom is pestering me nonstop about this, and I really tried my best to give you a full week to think about it, but she’s about to send out the invitations with Cecily’s name on them.” He scrapes a hand through perfectly coiffed brown hair. “So…I need an answer.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tell me again how this will work. I need a few details.”

He blinks. “That’s a yes.”

“I need some details before I say yes or no.”

“But it’s not no.”

“Paxton!” I snap.