Page 38 of Married in Michigan

I groan. “Figures you’d take the last of it.”

Paxton glances, and at least has the decency to look chagrined. “Sorry. I can make another pot.”

I wave a hand. “Be easier to just go get a cup from North Perk.” I gesture at the coffee maker. “That thing is older than both of us, and takes at least half an hour to make a pot.”

He takes a moment to examine the surroundings—my kitchen, and the beat-up, thrift store table and chairs we’re using, the chipped mugs, both thrift store finds, one with the faded logo of a St. Louis dry cleaning company, and the other an auto repair shop in Nome, Alaska; the ancient TV on a rickety stand, both also from thrift stores, and the TV is probably one of the earliest color TVs ever made; my couch, threadbare, with noisy springs and upholstery that’s more stain than fabric.

“Sensing a pattern when it comes to the overall age of things around here,” Paxton says.

I shrug. “Working girl barely making ends meet, Paxton. New stuff is for fancy people who can afford things like, oh, you know, payingallthe bills in a month.”

I stand up, toss my coffee in the sink, rinse out the mug, and set it upside down on the drying rack. “Well, I suppose it’s time to start packing.”

I stretch, leaning backward with my arms over my head, arching my spine until it cracks, and then twist side to side to crack it lower down—forgetting, momentarily, what I’m wearing and the company present. My boobs swing heavily side to side with my twisting, until one of them flies out. I cover it immediately with my hand and shove it back into place, but the damage is done—I glance at Paxton, who is staring at me with a blank, blinking expression, jaw tight, fingers clutching his coffee mug hard, as if suppressing his reaction requires maximum effort.

Blushing furiously, I tuck my hands under my armpits, covering my chest with my arms. “Sorry. I—yeah. Um. I’m going to get dressed. You can stay, or…whatever. I don’t even know.”

I’m not a prude, nor particularly or overly modest, but for some reason, the wardrobe malfunction has me off-balance and embarrassed, even though I’ve gotten naked with men I’ve known a shorter time than Paxton. I don’t really have any issues with my body, and I’m generally very confident about what I look like—and I know pretty damn well that most men are easily hypnotized by the natural monstrosity of my tatas alone, not to mention the rest of my curvaceousness. Paxton brings out something unique in me, though. I don’t know what, or how to define it or label it or handle it, just that he makes me feel odd and self-aware and more self-conscious than normal. Not self-conscious, just…physically self-aware.

Maybe.

Ugh.

I turn away from him and lock myself in my room—and change into a tight, minimizing bra, a pale green crew neck T-shirt, and my least flattering light-wash jeans. Nothing like the outfit I was wearing when he hijacked me on the side of the road, or the pajamas I was wearing when he barnstormed my apartment. I run a brush through my hair and keep it out of my face with a hairband.

I really don’t have much, so it’s short work to pack: my clothes are already in bins, and I have another for shoes and belts and scarves and such, and then my toiletries, shower stuff, phone charger, and the few other sundry items all fit into my gym duffel bag. Everything I own is packed within twenty minutes—the furniture I’ll leave for Bill, so he can rent the place fully furnished.

I exit the bedroom and find Paxton still at my table, nursing his coffee and scrolling through a social media platform on his phone. “So, you’re dressed and ready to go.” He swallows the last of his coffee and shoves his phone in the back pocket of his dark blue jeans. “I can help you pack.”

“I own, like, eight things, Paxton. I’m already packed. Five bins, a duffel bag, and my purse.” I shrug. “That’s it.”

He frowns. “I drove the Porsche here, which may fit a duffel at most.” He digs a set of keys out of his hip pocket. “So we go to my parents’ house and switch to the Rover, come back and get your stuff.”

I let out a sharp breath. “Okay. Let’s go.” I frown. “Wait, so we’re driving to DC?”

He laughs. “You kidding? No. We fly—private jet out of Pellston.”

I boggle at him. “Private jet? Like, an actual jet you guys own?”

Paxton makes a face of amused hilarity. “Yes, Makayla, an actual private passenger jet we own.” He stares up and to the left a moment, thinking. “Actually, I think Dad owns a few. Three or four big Gulfstreams he leases to various charter companies, and if somebody needs to use one, we just need to give them few hours’ notice. But this jet is a heavily customized Gulfstream Three, for the personal use of our immediate family in the Northern Michigan area only. The others, extended family and authorized friends of family, can use the others, but this baby is for us only.”

I cackle, a little overwhelmed. “Just because I’m so clueless, what’s the difference between a normal private jet and a ‘heavily customized’ one?” I ask, using air quotes around his phrasing.

He chews on his lower lip in an attempt to not laugh at me. “Oh, only about a hundred million dollars.”

I get a little woozy, and have to hold on to the counter. “A hundred…”

“A hundred million dollars,” he finishes.

“Meaning, yours is a hundred million dollarsmorethan the average?”

He nods. “At least. And I mean, you can get a little baby jet, like a Cirrus or whatever, for like two mil.”

“Does that make yours one of the most expensive?”

“Like, most expensive ever? Maybe in the top, oh, ten or fifteen in the world, but nowhere near the top. That belongs to a sultan of somewhere or other I think. But his shit is gold plated on the inside and is worth like five hundred million or something stupid.” He shrugs. “Which is cool, I guess, if you’re into having things gold plated and diamond encrusted.”

“And you’re not?” I glance pointedly at his watch, which is both.