Page 60 of Married in Michigan

I shake my head, and realize I’m a little wobbly. “Um, no. Probably shouldn’t.”

No grin, this time, just an intense, opaque smolder, golden-brown eyes regarding me without blinking, without giving away anything but raw intensity. “You sure?”

When I stand up, I do indeed wobble a little, and glance sheepishly at Paxton. “Yeah, I’m good.”

A small smile. “Ready to head home, then?”

“Yeah, just let me pee first.”

It doesn’t even hit me until I’m in the stall how easy “head home” slid through my mind. Maybe it’s the beer, but the panic isn’t as strong, this time.

Paxton is waiting by the front door—and he’s just waiting. No impatience, no checking his watch, just content to stand and watch the patrons in the pub, and wait for me.

He doesn’t notice me right away, and it gives me a chance to get a look at him without him knowing I’m staring.

And damn, the man is beautiful. Rugged, but elegant. Just enough stubble, but still clean cut. Powerfully built without being bulky. Lean, but not skinny. Well-dressed, but not flashy. And fuck me, that hair. So thick, so richly brown, artfully messy.

I swallow hard. Down girl.

Rein it in.

But…why? Why should I? I’m going to marry the man in a little more than three months. Why shouldn’t I get something out of it? He’s an expert at casual, and I’m certainly not about to fall in love. It would just be a little bit of fun. Something to make a fake-but-real marriage a little better for the both of us.

I know it wouldn’t be a thing, and he certainly does too. A marriage of convenience doesn’t have to be a joyless, sexless business arrangement, right?

So why am I hesitating? He’s sexy. He wants me. God knows why—I’m a far cry from the glamorous goddesses he usually dates.

I’m quiet as we get back on the road—the rush hour traffic has thinned, so the ride is much faster, which means it’s even more fun, but shorter.

I spend most of the ride trying not to look at Paxton, and trying not to continue the endlessly circular arguments for and against sleeping with him.

The problem is, the more I try not to think about it, the more I end up thinking about. And the more I think about it, the fewer compelling arguments I can come up with for why I shouldn’t sleep with him.

He’s still just as arrogant as ever, and just as entitled, and just as much of an insufferable know-it-all, but there’s also a lot more to him.

I mean, yeah, he’s damned beautiful, but is that enough of a reason? God, it’s not just his looks, though. It’s the way he looks at me. The intensity in his eyes. The spark and the heat, the curiosity. Like I’m a gift-wrapped enigma he wants to open up and figure out.

Do I want to be unwrapped and figured out? Do I want to know what those hands can do? They’re big, strong, clean, clever.

What can his mouth do?

I got a glimpse of what hides under his clothing…and I wonder about that, too.

We arrive back in the underground garage, and the elevator ride back up is quiet. It’s not exactly late, but it’s been a crazy day and I’m in a weird place emotionally, as well as in a new place physically, and I’m tired.

Suddenly drained.

The alcohol is fading, and I’m still a little unsteady, but that could be exhaustion.

I realize we’re standing in his foyer, just outside his study, neither of us speaking, just looking at each other. His eyes search me. More of that speculative, curious heat. A hint of amusement. Desire.

“What?” I ask.

He shrugs. “This is weird for me.”

“What is?”

“Going on a date with a beautiful woman, bringing herhere, and then…not knowing what to do next.”