Page 52 of Married in Michigan

Liam opens a door, Paxton ushers me through first and follows me inside. The noise from outside is immediately silenced, a hush from within the condo building’s foyer falling over us. I get a sense of brightness and airy elegance, and then we’re on a wood-paneled elevator, Liam on one side of me, Paxton on the other.

I look up into Liam’s eyes. “Hi,” I say, inanely.

He smirks, a ghost of a curve touching his lips. “Good afternoon, Miss Poe.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Call me Makayla, please.”

“As you wish, ma’am.”

I snort. “It’s like that, is it?”

Liam glances at Paxton, who just shrugs, lifting his palms facing up. “Doesn’t have to be, I guess.”

I smile at him, now. “Better.” I eye him. “Did you go to British Butler School, too?”

Liam arches an eyebrow. “Nope. I went to Iraq, by way of the United States Marine Corps Reconnaissance Training Company.”

“Oh.”

Paxton leans toward me, speaking in a stage whisper. “That means he made bad guys go bye-bye real good.”

I glare at him. “Wow, Paxton, thanks so much for that translation. Whatever would I do without you?”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

The ride is brief, and then the doors open to a short, wide, white-carpeted hallway with a single door at the end. Liam uses a keycard to open the door, preceding us both inside—Paxton waits until Liam returns with a signal which apparently means all is clear.

Liam waits with his back to the open door, and Paxton leads me in to what I assume is a penthouse condo.

White marble floor with gold veins glittering through it, white tray ceilings golden with hidden lights, art lining the walls, each piece lit from above. An elegant, arching, polished wood bench here, more art than furniture. A glimpse through open French glass doors into a masculine study: huge dark wood desk, stuffed-to-bursting bookshelves lining three walls, a deep leather chair in a corner with a polished bronze floor lamp, a paperback novel upside down on the cushion, waiting to be picked back up. The foyer/hallway opens to a formal sitting room opposite the study, the sitting room occupied by a grand piano, music books in several layers on the music rack, a shelf behind the piano stuffed with more sheet music and books, the fall lifted to leave the black and white keys exposed; unexpected, that piano, and even more unexpected is the evidence that it is used and is not merely decoration.

Beyond the study and sitting room is an open-plan kitchen and living room, a hallway off the living room leading to the bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding doors form one side of the space, overlooking the river, and outside is an expansive flower garden terrace and outdoor living area.

I stand in the transitional space between the kitchen and living room, turning in a slow circle, examine the condo; it’s masculine but not aggressively so, warm and inviting, lived-in but luxurious, expensive but not gaudy.

My first instinct is to put on gloves and start cleaning, even though it’s already clean—it’s just not spotless to Camilla’s Beach by deBraun standards.

My second instinct is to stop breathing and wonder what the hell I’m doing in a place like this.

Paxton stands beside me, drapes an arm casually over my shoulders. “Welcome home.”

13

Idon’t know where my duffel bag is—so many people have carried it for me at this point that I’ve lost track of where it is.

Is Washington DC in the same time zone as Michigan?

Where will I sleep? Does he expect me to sleep with him?

Do I want to?

He’s a man, and one with a media-verified high-octane libido, so if he’s not expecting me to sleep with him he’s at least hoping to and probably looking for ways to make it happen.

The second question is trickier. Do I want to sleep with him?

Maybe.

No.