Page 51 of Married in Michigan
He smiles, but it’s distracted. “So, we’re here.”
I nod, a sarcastic expression on my face. “So I’ve noticed.”
He gestures out the window. “You have no way of knowing how this is going to work, I’m realizing.”
“How what’s going to work?” I ask, and then look in the direction he indicated—there’s a small cluster of men and women with cameras being held back by several large men in black suits and mirrored sunglasses. “Are those guys Secret Service?”
He chuckles. “Nope. I don’t rate protection, being a lowly first-term House rep. They’re private security.”
“How did they know we’re here? How did the photographers know?”
“Well, Liam, my driver, is also head of my personal security detail, and it’s his job to get bodies where I need them, so he alerted the crew here in DC while we were on the drive over.” A gesture at the photographers. “As for them? This is a pretty high-profile address, and a lot of DC power players live in this building, which means there are always photographers lurking around waiting for a car to show up so they can get shots of whoever it is arriving.”
I watch the activity outside: security keeps the photographers at a distance, but they push and leverage and angle to get a shot of the car.
Turning back to Paxton, I push my hair back and stiffen my spine. “So. What are we doing?”
“Liam will open the curb-side door, and I will slide out first. I’ll offer you my hand and help you out, but I’ll keep both Liam and myself between you and the photographers.” His gaze is serious. “This is the first the media will know of you, and it’ll be just shots from a distance, over my shoulder. No details, not enough to identify you, but enough to get the speculation started.”
“So this is a big deal,” I say.
He nods, serious. “It is.” A hesitation. “I’ve um—I’ve been photographed with plenty of women before, this can’t be news to you. But I’ve never been photographed bringing a womanhere, because I never have. This fact will not escape notice.”
“Why not?”
“Why won’t it escape notice? Or why haven’t I brought anyone here?”
I shrug. “Either. Both.”
“It’s just the kind of thing the twenty-four hour news cycle loves to pounce on, especially the celebrity-obsessed cycle. The media, for some reason, is just fascinated with me and my romantic involvements. Although, entanglements may be a better word.” A careless wave. “So, you can just be guaranteed that they’ll make a big deal out of the photos that are about to happen. And that’s gonna get back to Mom, which is all part of my plan to fuck with her stupid Machiavellian machinations in my life.”
“Mockya-what-what?”
He chuckles. “Machiavellian machinations. Ivy League bullshit for she’s a meddler, and I’m about to foil her plans.” He leans forward. “Whenever you’re ready, Liam.”
A voice like a razor rasping over a whetstone. “Certainly, sir.”
I shudder at that voice. “He sounds scary.”
Paxton laughs. “The Boogieman has nightmares about Liam.”
“That’s a good thing?”
“Yes, it is,” Paxton says, still laughing. “He’s been with our family for twenty years. Loyal to the last breath, and scary as hell, but the nicest guy you’ll ever meet.”
I see a black-suited body move to stand in front of the rear curbside passenger door, waiting. A beat, two. Paxton taps on the window with a knuckle, and it’s clearly a prearranged signal, because upon the tap, Liam swings the door open and steps to put himself between the gathering crowd of photographers—the noise, as he opens the door, washes into the interior of the once-quiet car like a wave, palpable. Paxton gracefully exits the car, straightens his shirt, tucks the front in behind his belt, brushes his hand through his hair to neaten it a little, then turns to smile and wave at the photographers.
And then he leans down, smiles brightly at me, eyes dancing, teeth white, arm stretching his sleeve as he reaches in for me. His hand folds around mine, and I let him help me out of the car—my legs are shaky, knees wobbling. Not ready, not ready, not ready—
Flashes blink and wink and strobe, and I realize I’m dressed two steps up from looking like a hobo. This is my debut, apparently, and I’m wearing my worst jeans and a baggy T-shirt—all because I didn’t like how much I liked the way Paxton was looking at me at my apartment.
“Wish you’d mentioned that I’d be photographed today,” I murmur as I stand up. “I’d have dressed a little nicer.”
“You’d have been more nervous than you already are about everything, and you didn’t need that pressure. Besides, when we’re ready for them to get good pictures of you, we’ll arrange it and you’ll be looking your best and you’ll be ready for it.” As promised, both he and Liam are standing between me and the photographers. “Ready?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer, which would have been “no.” He gently but firmly pulls me into a walk, Liam ahead of us, head on a swivel.
Liam: Medium height, seemingly of average build, graying black hair cut short and neat, clean-shaven, wearing a black suit and sunglasses. But despite his average size, he moves likes a predator, and exudes confidence and threat.