Page 49 of Married in Michigan

He laughs, curling an arm around me protectively. “Okay, so flying’s not your thing.” He’s laughing at me, the bastard. But it’s somehow not unkind. “It’s okay, Makayla. It’s fine.” I feel him bend a little, glancing out the window. “Okay, here we go. Squeeze my hand as hard as you need to. We’re going to touch down in…five…four…three…two…one—”

BUMP—SQUEAL.

I’m pretty sure I crush his hand, I squeeze so hard at the jolt and the bark of the tires, and then I think the worst is over, but it’s not—there’s a roaring sound, like a hurricane howling outside.

“That’s the brakes, babe. It’s normal. We’re slowing down.” Paxton’s arm curls me into him, and he smells like expensive cologne: spicy but smooth, almost sweet, a rich scent that’s not overpowering.

I do NOT want to feel so comforted by him. It’s not right. That’s not what this is. Not who I am. I don’t need comfort. I don’t need anyone, and I don’t want anyone.

I’m doing this for the money. For Mom.

But fear is stronger than my desire to pretend I don’t feel what I’m feeling, so I breathe in his scent, and let myself enjoy, just for a moment, the comfort of his strong arm around me.

This is a comfort I’ve never felt. I’ve never been hugged by a man.

Fucked, yes. Hugged? No.

I swallow hard, choking down the dizzying burst of emotions that bizarre realization brings up in me—and then the roaring stops and the feeling of being crushed forward by momentum slackens.

“See? Done. Safe on the ground.” He doesn’t let go, but he does loosen his grip on me so I can pull away on my own time.

I do, after a moment. I sit up straight, brush my springy curls back over my shoulders, and clear my throat. “I, um. Sorry.”

He tilts his head, puzzled. “Sorry? For what?”

I gesture at him. “For being such a baby about it.”

He smiles, shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

I expect some idiotic remark about not minding having his arm around me, and judging by the mischievous sparkle of his deep brown eyes, I know he’s thinking it.

It’s a legitimate moment between us.

“What?” he asks, half laughing.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“No, you’re thinking something. Expecting me to say something stupid, it feels like.”

I bite back a grin. “I was, actually.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Something along the lines of, ‘hey, if it’ll get you back in my arms, let’s fly all the time,’ I imagine?”

I snicker. “Along those lines, yes. Although that’s a clunky and awkward line if I’ve ever heard one, and I feel like you’re smart enough to be smoother than that.”

He shrugs. “While that may be true, I think what I’m smart enough to know better than to say dumb shit like that to a woman fresh out of a panic attack.”

“Well, at least there’s that going for you.” I frown. “I wouldn’t call it a panic attack. More just…raw fear at a scary and new experience.”

The jet halts with a gentle lurch, and then an attendant opens the door from the outside, and a staircase is put in place, and the attendant, a blonde, middle-aged woman wearing a blue power suit, ushers us off the plane, thanking Paxton by name—Mr. deBraun—with a polite nod and thank you to me. Paxton thanks her back, preceding me down the stairs, where another sleek black Mercedes awaits. This one, while still absurdly luxurious, isn’t one of those Pullman things, but seems to be somewhat similar.

The ride from the airport is long and quiet—I’m at war with myself over my behavior on the plane, and specifically how nice it was to have his arm around me, how amazing he smells, and how I don’t want to like it.

The war is that another part of me, deep inside, a small quiet voice, is whispering that Iammarrying the man, after all, so why shouldn’t I, at a minimum, not mind him, if not outright like him? He’s been pretty nice to me, so far. He’s sexy as sin. Rich as hell. Seems to have at least some kind of decency as a person, judging by his reaction to certain things his mother has done and said.

After a good thirty minutes of silence, Paxton pivots a little on the seat, leaning backward against the door and window. “You’re awful quiet.”

I stare out the opposite window, and shrug—we’re on a freeway like any other, with an early afternoon sun shining, bathing everything in yellow-golden light. “Just…thinking.”