Page 58 of Married in Michigan
I shrug. “Um…I don’t know. I’m fine either way.”
He frowns. “I’m not choosing.”
I sigh. “I honestly have no frame of reference, Paxton. I eat at the cafe in the morning, and dinner at the hotel in the evening. Occasionally I’ll pick up something on the way home, but not usually. So if you have some fancy chef waiting to make a fifteen-course meal, go for it. If you have standing reservations at the most upscale restaurant in DC, fine.”
This gets me a laugh. “It’sdinner, Makayla. You’re taking this far too seriously.”
I can’t help but laugh, because he’s right. “Okay, whatever. Let’s eat out, then. But you pick the location.”
“The question becomes a matter of fancy versus casual.”
I gesture at my outfit—the loose, ill-fitting jeans and wrinkled, baggy boys’ crewneck T-shirt. “I’d think this makes it pretty obvious.”
He smirks. “We could go shopping first.”
My stomach growls again. “No, I’m too hungry to wait. I haven’t eaten anything but some yogurt today.”
He frowns, gesturing impatiently at the kitchen. “You should’ve eaten something, in that case. The kitchen is fully stocked with just about anything you could possibly think of.”
I sigh. “Paxton, look, I’m just not there yet. This doesn’t feel like home—it feels like I’m your guest, and I’m not comfortable just poking around your kitchen and helping myself to your food. Plus, you probably only have shit like caviar and some kind of fancy salad.”
Paxton cackles. “Do I seem like someone who eats that kind of bullshit?” He stands up. “Come on. I know you have nicer clothes than that in what you brought with you—the only reason you wore that is because you were embarrassed that I caught you in your sexy little pj's.” His eyes reflect his enjoyment of the memory. “So, go change into nicer jeans and a sexier top, and we’ll go get some food.” He pauses. “Real food. No fancy salad, unless that’s your thing.”
I stand up and follow him, grumbling under my breath: “Sexy little pj's my ass. You just liked the free show.”
It was supposed to be under my breath, but he obviously heard me. “I admit I didn’t mind that portion of the program,” he says, holding the door and meeting my eyes.
I have no response for that, so I just go to my new bedroom and change—nicest jeans, nicest top. Meaning, the dark-wash jeans have a liberal amount of stretch to them so they fit more like leggings, which does wonders for my thighs and booty, which are both pretty damned wondrous, between genetics and exercise. The top is a tight, filmy ivory camisole over my one good bra, with a lightweight, pale coral three-quarter sleeve sweater over it. Paired with my one set of decent heels, and a quick updo of my hair and some light makeup, I feel…not fancy, but acceptable for a dinner out on the town in the company of a man as wealthy, sexy, and influential as Paxton deBraun.
Paxton is sitting at the island, perched on a barstool, sipping sparkling water from a green glass bottle, reading a paperback. When he hears me emerge, he turns on the stool, sees me, and slowly sets down the book, eyes widening slightly.
“Damn, Makayla. Maybe we don’t need to go shopping after all.”
I snort. “This is my one nice outfit.”
He shakes his head. “Well…damn. You look amazing.” He doesn’t seem to be blowing smoke up my ass either, because his eyes rake over me several times, lingering at my hips and chest more than once before latching onto my eyes. “You ready?”
I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”
He eyes me again. “Don’t you need a purse?”
I shrug, holding up my little wristlet that contains my ID, debit card, and a small amount of folded-up emergency cash. “Nah. No keys, no phone, and I’m not a touch up my makeup kind of girl. This is all I really need.”
He grins. “Minimal. I like it.” He digs in his pocket, withdraws his cell phone, and tosses it on the counter. “Let’s go pick a ride.”
I follow him to the elevator. “You’re leaving your phone?”
He nods, lifting his left wrist on which is a large black rectangular smartwatch. “Any of my people need me, I’ll get notifications here. If they don’t have my personal number, they don’t need to get ahold of me.”
We take the elevator down to an underground garage; the collection here is a tiny fraction of what’s at the house in Michigan: a modern Porsche convertible, a Range Rover SUV, and a classic motorcycle with a sidecar, along with a couple hulks covered by white drop cloths.
I eye him. “Well?
He stares at me. “Well what?”
“I’m waiting for the inevitable lecture on the cars.”
He chuckles. “These are just practical everyday vehicles. Porsche for sunny weather, Rover for nasty stuff.” He gestures at the motorcycle and sidecar. “That’s the only piece of any real interest. It’s a World War Two era military motorcycle and sidecar, which saw actual action in the European theater, and was later restored by a company in Florida. It’s a recent acquisition, and I’ve never actually taken anyone out in the sidecar before.”