Page 59 of Married in Michigan
I can’t help a grin from spreading across my face. “This seems as good a time as any, right?”
He stares at me in disbelief for a long moment, waiting. When nothing further is forthcoming, he laughs. “Wait, really?”
The boyish excitement in his voice is…well, it’s honestly fucking adorable. And it makes me grin so hard my cheeks hurt.
“Yeah, really. It sounds like fun. I’ve never been on a motorcycle, and I’ve always wanted to try it.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You do have a motorcycle license, right?”
An arrogant roll of his eyes. “Obviously. A license, as well as evasive and defensive driving training by a professional motorcycle racer.” He indicates the sidecar. “I guess I assumed you’d want to arrive in style, in a car, rather than something like that. A sidecar isn’t exactly the quietest or smoothest ride, and it’ll wreak hell on your hair.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty much the opposite of high maintenance, Paxton. And this is dinner, not a gala, right? So…I’m up for a little adventure.”
His grin broadens, as if he can’t quite believe his luck. As if the women he’s used to dating wouldn’t be caught dead in a motorcycle sidecar. His excitement is palpable, and contagious.
There are two helmets, one hanging from the handlebar of the motorcycle, the other on the seat of the sidecar. Both are vintage-looking, and knowing Paxton, actually vintage. I realize I’ll have to tie my bun lower down to get the helmet on properly, so I let it loose from the high top bun and retie my hair down at my nape, and then strap on the helmet.
Paxton watches all this, a grin on his face.
I can’t help but laugh again. “This is really exciting for you, isn’t it?”
He nods. “Very. I never expected to have anyone around who’d be willing to ride in the sidecar. I could probably compel Liam to climb in for a quick ride, but that wouldn’t be the same.”
“Well, you’re welcome…for being open to adventures,” I say, climbing into the sidecar.
He laughs. “And it will be an adventure.” He grins as he swings a leg over the saddle and straps his helmet on. “Full disclosure, here—riding in a sidecar is a whole different ballgame, and while I’ve had practice with it, I’m by no means an expert.”
I eye him. “So should I be worried?”
“Nah. Just letting you know. It could be a little…rough, at first. It just handles totally different, due to the unequal distribution of weight and wheels and all.”
He starts the motorcycle, and it comes to life with a rattling snarl, and then idles with a smooth, even chug. A glance at me, a grin, and then we’re off. Slow, at first, heading up the ramp to the exit, where a sensor of some kind detects us, opens a garage door, and then we’re out in the reddish-gold light of evening. A quick, leaning right turn into traffic, and then I’m pushed back into the seat as Paxton accelerates. The feeling of open-air and speed and connection to the world around me and the road beneath me is ten times what it was in the little Porsche—exhilarating, wildly exciting. I whoop loudly as he opens the throttle and we zip forward.
We can’t go very fast, because traffic is pretty thick, it being evening rush hour in DC, but it’s still fun, and Paxton clearly knows side roads and alleys to get around the worst of traffic—many of which are only really accessible to us because of the fact that we’re so small. It’s a sadly short ride—as we soon pull down a narrow street and into a small parking lot. I wasn’t sure where I was expecting him to take me, but this doesn’t fit any of my expectations. It’s a little pub off the main road, called The Sovereign. All dark wood and leather-topped stools with brass buttons, red-cushioned high-top chairs, cozy booths ensconced in thick, dark wood panels, filled with young, well-dressed people conversing in low tones under the exposed wood beams and old-world rustic light fixtures.
He gets us a quiet corner booth, orders a beer for himself and eyes me expectantly. I just shrug. “I have no clue. I don’t really drink beer all that often.” I gesture at Paxton. “Order for me. You clearly have more refined taste than I do.”
He eyes me speculatively, considering, and then orders me…something. I don’t know what. Something with a fancy name. When it comes, it turns out to be a tasty and refreshing light lager, and we sip in silence as we peruse the menu—elegant takes on classic hearty fare. He gets a burger, and I, on a whim, decide to go way outside my comfort zone and try duck leg confit.
At my selection, Paxton grins. “Good choice. It’s excellent.”
“Trying something new,” I say.
It’s a surprisingly low-key and highly enjoyable experience. We drink good beer, eat good food, and our conversation is easily endless—mostly due to Paxton’s enviable skill as a conversationalist. He can talk with equal ease about nearly everything—we cover sports, music, movies, Hollywood star drama, and he relates a few entertaining stories from the Hill. Nothing heavy, nothing deep. Just me and him, a meal, and light conversation.
It’s too easy.
I like it way too much.
I notice too many things—the effortless elegance in the way he eats, the gracefulness of his movements, the way his jaw flexes as he chews, the sparkle in his eyes as he tells something funny about a gaffe made by one of his colleagues. The way his arms stretch his sleeves, the cords in his forearms. The way he occasionally brushes his thick dark hair back from his head in a carelessly sexy gesture that leaves my heart palpitating weirdly.
He has three beers by the time he’s finished eating, and takes his time finishing the third after the end of his meal, and I notice he’s careful to liberally punctuate his sips of beer with swigs of ice water. Considering we’re returning home in a motorcycle with a sidecar, which he’s admitted he’s not an expert in operating, is very reassuring.
As for me…the duck leg confit is so fucking good I have to restrain myself from making too many moans of delight. Being unused to beer, I probably drink the first couple a little too fast. The third goes down even more smoothly, and I’m not drinking water with it.
But fuck it, right? If I can’t cut loose a little now, then when?
Paxton’s third beer seems to last forever, while I’m on my…fifth? Conversation seems to loop and circle and drift, and his attention never wavers. It’s a weird feeling, for me, being the utter center of someone’s attention. He glances at his watch a couple times, but immediately dismisses it without a second glance or taking his attention from me.
After I don’t know how long, he finally tosses back the last swallow of beer and slides the empty glass aside. “You want another?”