Page 46 of Married in Michigan

“But of course,” I drawl.

Paxton just laughs. “You make fun, but it’s just how they do things. They have the money, so why not?”

I shrug, nod. “Makes sense, I just…” A laugh. “It’s all beyond my ability to fathom, I guess.”

A silence, but not an uncomfortable one. I watch the scenery pass, and I can’t help but marvel a little at the complete silence within this car—the soundproofing is perfect, without even a hint of road noise. I feel separate from the world, a completely opposite sensation to being in Paxton’s little Porsche.

I glance at him. “I like your car better.”

He smirks. “My 356?”

“The one you picked me up in this morning, yes.”

His grin widens. “Totally different experiences, right?”

I nod. “Exactly what I was just thinking. I like the air and the sense of being in the world, whereas in this I just feel like I’m floating in a moving castle, separated from everything.”

“Well, that is the purpose of this car.”

“To make you feel separate from the unwashed masses?”

He frowns, but nods. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, that’s an unkind way of putting it, and not every wealthy person is like that, but the essence of your point is accurate enough.”

We chat more on the rest of the drive, but there are long silences, and I’m somewhat baffled by how comfortable I am already with Paxton.

Although, now and then, there are moments that are distinctlynotcomfortable. Moments where I’m looking out the window and feel his eyes on me, moments where his gaze is piercing and scrutinizing and yet unreadable, and I wonder if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. We’re separated by the console between us, yet I feel him filling the car with his larger-than-life presence, where even silent and still he is somehow justmore.

Thirty minutes in the car, and we’re pulling onto a section of tarmac somewhat distant from the rest of the airport. The jet that’s waiting, engines idling, is not small. Sleek, white, with six or so oval windows, and a truck-borne staircase leading up to the door. John pulls the limousine up within a few feet of the base of the stairs, puts the vehicle in park, and moves with a speed that is somehow unhurried around to open the door first for me, and then Paxton, who unfolds himself from the seat with a smooth elegance. A tug straightens his polo; a pass of his hand sweeps his hair aside.

Effortlessly perfect.

Annoying.

I feel…frumpy. Underdressed. Awkward, like a newborn giraffe. I wish, stupidly, that I’d dressed up a little more. Worn nicer jeans, a better top. Compared to Paxton’s elegant perfection, I’m a sleazy plebeian with no taste.

I push my self-consciousness away—I am who I am, and I’m not trying to impress him or anyone. He picked me, and I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not just to please him. Like me or don’t, take me or leave me, I don’t care—that’s been my attitude my whole life, taught to me by Mom, who is the most self-confident, self-possessed woman I’ve ever known. Even Camilla deBraun can’t compare to my mom when it comes to sense of pride in self—Mom survived just about the worst that life can throw at a person, and retained her sense of self and pride in who she is; it’s this attitude I have inherited, which I’ve also developed for myself through my own experiences. I can stand on my own two feet; I can make my way through life without anyone’s help. I have nobody to impress. Never cared about what I do or don’t own, or what I look like.

Not going to start now, that’s for damn sure.

I lift my chin, stiffen my spine, and wait for Paxton to precede me up the stairs—I’m about to head up when I see John carrying my duffel bag; I take it from him, despite his protestations that it’s his job to carry it for me. He doesn’t work for me, and I’m not about to start letting people wait on me hand and foot just because I’m hanging around Paxton deBraun.

I toss my duffel bag on a seat, and sit in the seat beside it—in the row in front of Paxton. I feel his confusion, but I ignore it. I’m so confused, so conflicted.

I don’t know how much time passes before the airplane begins moving, and the tarmac outside is whizzing past, and I have to grip the armrests and clench my jaw. I breathe hard.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Paxton, beside me. Touching my shoulder. “Never flown before?”

The pressure on my ears, on my chest, pressing me into the seat—it’s terrifying. I shake my head.

His hand is gentle, gripping my shoulder in a friendly, comforting way. His voice is a low buzz in my ear. “Breathe, Makayla.”

I suck in a ragged breath, and realize I was holding it only after my lungs fill with oxygen. I reach out blindly and grab his hand, and somehow his hand tangles with mine, fingers twined with fingers, and I clench it as hard as I can.

After a while, the pressure relaxes, but my terror doesn’t—I’m at the window seat, and outside I can see the world spread out like a quilt far, far, far below.

My terror isn’t as much about being this high up in a tiny little metal tube—itisthat, but notjustthat.

It’s him.