Page 50 of Married in Michigan

“Care to share?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Not really.”

“Come on. One thing.”

“I’m the farthest away from home I’ve ever been. The farthest away from my mom I’ve ever been.” Crap, I shouldn’t have brought her up.

He absorbs what I’ve said, and thinks a moment before answering. “You’re pretty close to her, huh?”

I swallow hard; keep my face turned to the window so he doesn’t see the tear that trickles down my cheek. “Yeah. Super close.”

Silence.

“Um, well. You know, uh—I wouldn’t always be able to go with you, but my car and driver and the jet are always available to you. Let me know if you want to go home for a day or two, and I’ll have the jet warmed up and waiting, and if I’m using Liam and the car, I’ll get a service to take you to the airport. Whenever you want, Makayla.”

I make a show of fixing my hair, but it’s an excuse to wipe at my face, steady my breathing, and then smile at him—but it’s a small, tight one. “Thank you, Paxton. I appreciate the gesture.”

He frowns. “It’s not a gesture. It’s reality. You could say we’re engaged, right? In my world, that means you have full access to the family resources. Especially since the whole reason we’re doing this is to make sureIstill have access to those resources.”

I exhale shakily. “Engaged. We’re engaged.” It’s not just my breath that’s shaky—it’s all of me. “What the hell am I thinking?”

Panic sets in—my lungs seize, my heart hammers erratically, and my thoughts whirl crazily.

“Makayla?” Concern paints his voice.

“Thisis a panic attack,” I whisper.

“Hey, hey, just breathe. Breathe, Makayla.” He physically turns my body so I’m facing him, and I know I’m crying now, but I have no control over it—I can’t breathe, can’t get my lungs to work, and the inability to breathe is terrifying, worse than taking off or landing.

“C-c-can’t—” I gasp, my voice raspy, harsh.

He lifts me bodily off the seat and deposits me in his lap, wraps both arms around me, cradling my head against his chest—I hear his breathing, and feel the steady thumping of his heart. He sucks in a deep breath. Holds it.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs.

I try. Fail. Lungs won’t cooperate.

He lets the breath out slowly. “Count with me, okay? Ready? One…two…three…four…five…” And then he inhales again, a slow filling of his lungs, holds it, and counts again.

Slowly, patiently, he repeats the process, counting to five, breathing in, counting to five, breathing out. It’s something to focus on, and gradually I feel myself mimicking him. A tentative, shuddering breath. Manage to make it as far as three, and then my breath explodes out, and I have to fight to bring it back in. And then I’m sobbing, hating myself for this weakness, this panic, for needing the comfort Paxton is providing.

He doesn’t waver.

Just breathes, and counts.

I find myself matching him, eventually. Get a full inhalation, hold it for five, exhale, and count again.

His arms are strong and hard, yet his embrace is gentle. His hands are on my shoulder and my waist; his breath is on my scalp, his chin in my hair. He’s all around me, and I’m breathing because he’s breathing.

How long does it take to gather myself? I have no concept of the time. It feels like forever, and yet it is only a moment. When I can open my eyes and breathe and behave like a rational human again, I straighten away from his embrace.

His golden-brown eyes are warm and concerned. “Okay, now?”

I nod, can’t summon a smile. “Yeah.” I want to look away in embarrassment and shame, but I don’t. Not sure why, because those two emotions are top dog in the pile-up inside me, but I just can’t. “No, but yeah.”

“No, but yes?” He uses the tip of a middle finger to brush a curly tendril of hair away from my eyes, and it’s too intimate a gesture and I can’t handle how that makes me feel, so I slip off his lap and move back to my seat, and buckle up.

“I’m over the panic attack, and I’m not going to cry anymore, but I wouldn’t say I’m okay.” I look out the window, and realize we’ve stopped. We’re in downtown Washington DC, parked along the curb. A smirk from Paxton at my seat belt has me laughing despite myself. “I didn’t realize we were here.”