Page 63 of Married in Michigan

Damn it—I am insomuch trouble.

Ifthat’s just a kiss, a short and innocent one at that?

Oh god, oh god.

So much trouble.

15

“Okay, one more look,” Julie says, handing me a set of hangers laden with clothing. “This one’s going to be the most fabulous yet, just you wait.”

I’ve tried on at least thirty different looks at four different stores, each look—or, as I more prosaically call them, outfits—chosen by Julie, the personal shopper and stylist hired by Paxton to give me a style. Julie is Asian—Korean, maybe? I’m not sure—small, petite, beautiful in a sleek, prim, sophisticated way, with an obnoxious tendency to overuse buzzwords likelovely, andfabulous, andgorgeous. She sounds, in an odd way, like an extravagantly gay man stuck in the body of a four-foot-nine Asian woman.

I suppress a sigh, taking the stack of hangers over my forearm and heading into the changing room. This look is a layered one: slim, tight-fitting leggings in a light gray/dark gray camo print, in a thick, almost denim-like textured fabric, with a gauzy, feathery, brilliantly white sleeveless top, over top is an open, knee-length, plum sweater with heavy, chunky wood buttons and an overly wide lapel. Finishing the look is a pair of white TOMS, a medium-sized Gucci handbag, and jewelry and bangles—simple silver bracelets on both wrists, with a black leather cuff on one and a twisted braid of black leather with a copper pendant on the other, and a black leather choker necklace.

When everything is on, I step out of the changing room and face Julie, waiting as she taps her pursed lips with a long, manicured fingernail. She reaches out without saying a word and removes the necklace.

“There, much better. I like the choker, but it’s too much. It overloads the look. You’re best with just the bangles on your wrists. Besides, you have such a lovely neck, it’s almost a shame to distract from it.” She smiles, nodding as she steps back. “Good, good, very lovely. This is a perfect look for a casual sort of day. You could wear this to go shopping and a nice lunch, and even a lovely casual dinner. It’s comfortable and sophisticated, but not too dressy.” She pushes on my shoulder to get me to spin, going so far as to lift the tail of the sweater to check out how the leggings fit around my butt. “The leggings fit you perfectly. You’ll probably want some kind of sweater or something layered that’s long enough to cover this fabulous bottom of yours, because it’s just so gorgeous it’d steal the show, and we want to present ourselves to the world with class, don’t we? We can flaunt our bodies, but overemphasizing our assets detracts from the overall sophistication of a look, you know.”

I physically stop myself from rolling my eyes, but I do love the outfit. As I’ve loved nearly all of them, once we narrowed down a general theme. We’ve discovered that I value comfort over fashion, that I don’t mind showing a bit of skin, and that I like understated pieces rather than anything gaudy or showy or flashy.

Julie flicks her fingers at the changing room. “Okay, back into your unfortunate clothing. We’ll discard them once we’re back at the penthouse.”

She hates my clothes—the jeans are cheap and ill-fitting, she says, and my top is far too plain and doesn’t do my shape any favors. Well, no shit—the jeans were three dollars and the top was one dollar, from a big-box resale store.

I stopped calculating how much is being spent after we passed the first thousand, which included two outfits from the first store. A rough guess would be easily twenty grand just in actual clothing, meaning tops and bottoms. Julie has also picked out brand-name handbags, jewelry, watches, and shoes. The back of the Range Rover is piled high with bags, and I honestly am overwhelmed beyond any capacity to cope with the amount of money being spent on me. I nearly fainted when Julie nonchalantly slipped a pair of shoes on my feet which had a price tag of two thousand dollars, and did get light-headed when she slid a purse onto my shoulder which cost five thousand. Just for starters, Julie said. Simple stuff, first. The basics.

She swipes Paxton’s black credit card like it’s her mission in life to pauperize him via this shopping trip, and genuinely doesn’t seem to grasp my discomfort with the price tags.

When I gawp helplessly at a nine-thousand-dollar price tag on a flimsy silk sundress—which, admittedly, looks absolutely breathtaking on me, but still,nine thousand dollarsfor a little bit of silk and thread—she just laughs and tells me to stop looking at the price tag.

The camo legging outfit was only the halfway point apparently—after that we moved on to three more stores and at least a dozen looks at each. Julie has me try on a bunch of outfits and then pares them down to about half, sets aside the keep pile, and starts over again, pulling more outfits and trying them on me and cutting some. Each store takes at least an hour; we’ve been shopping since nine in the morning and it's past three in the afternoon, now. We haven’t even stopped for lunch, although we did zip through a Starbucks drive-thru for iced coffees and pastries.

Finally, at the eighth store and an absolutely mind-boggling amount of clothing tried and purchased, I slump into the rear passenger seat and eye Julie with a glare.

“No more,” I say in a dramatic gasp. “I give. Mercy.”

Julie laughs, a light bell-like tinkle. “Had enough, have you? Fine. We’ll call it a day. At least you have a basic wardrobe to work with now. You still need a few formal looks for business dinners, and I have to get you into some evening gowns for galas, but Mr. deBraun said we have a bit of time before gala season starts.”

“There’s a gala season?” I ask.

Julie smiles widely, giddy. “Oh, yes! Best time of the year. So many fabulous looks, so many gorgeous parties to go to, it’s just the best.” She sighs happily, as if envisioning a parade of clothes floating in front of her face.

I glance back into the trunk at the dozens of bags, at what has to be over a hundred thousand dollars—which she considers just the basics—and my head spins. And I still have to get fitted for evening gowns, which I assume will each cost the equivalent of an entire mortgage for an average family,beforeshoes and jewelry, not to mention hair and makeup.

Julie says she doesn’t handle that end, and that Mr. deBraun has a whole day planned for me at a spa. Which sounds equal parts incredible and terrifying.

We get back to Paxton’s building, and Liam pulls into the private garage. Julie heads for the elevator, while I round to the back of the car, open the trunk, and start loading up with bags.

Liam and Julie both stop dead in their tracks, staring at me blankly.

“What in the world are you doing, Makayla?” Julie asks, genuinely baffled.

I, equally baffled, speak slowly and clearly, in case she’s actually as stupid as the question is. “I’m unloading the car, Julie.”

Liam narrows his eyes at me, a look that, if given to a man, would mean a fistfight and broken bones. “That’s my job, ma’am.”

I sigh. “Oh. Right. Only poor people unload their own purchases.”