Page 69 of Married in Michigan
“Who’s Amanda?”
“A one-woman glam squad. I’ve worked with her for years, getting people ready for events.”
“People,” I say, drily.
He arches an eyebrow. “I make neither apologies nor excuses, Makayla, and I hope you don’t expect them.” He doesn’t wait for a response from me, but dials a number. “Amanda. I need you here. Right away. No, just something quick and minimal. She doesn’t need a lot—you’ll see. Okay, thanks. See you in fifteen.”
I marvel. “She just drops whatever she’s doing?”
“Well, yeah. I pay her a premium on top of her usual rates and, in return, if I call her in, she doesn’t ask how high when I say jump, she just starts jumping.”
He pours us each a glass of red wine from a decanter and brings them to us, and we continue munching on the charcuterie.
“So, what do I do at this dinner?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Be yourself. Smile, laugh, tell jokes, listen.”
“Why are you bringing me?”
“It’s a dinner with my friend and his wife—it would be awkward and uncomfortable for me and them if I showed up alone. Makes talking shop impossible—then his wife either has to listen to our conversation, or we can’t talk shop for fear of boring her stupid. Having a date is vital—makes the whole dynamic work.”
I cringe. “So I have to be girly and social with a woman I’ve never met?” I laugh bitterly. “You definitely hired the wrong chick for this, Paxton.”
He narrows his eyes at me over the rim of his wineglass. “I didn’thireyou, Makayla. This isn’t a business arrangement. I’m not paying you. You’re not doing a job.”
I sigh. “Feels like it.”
“Well, then, you need to fix that misapprehension real fucking fast. That attitude will stink on you worse than shit-stained underwear.”
I make a disgusted face. “Paxton! That’s so gross!”
He shrugs. “This is Washington, babe. We’re all liars, cheats, thieves, manipulators—and worse: lawyers. If there’s one thing we’re all pros at, it’s sniffing out weakness. If you go into these meetings and events and dinners feeling like you’re just a hired girl, everyone will feel it, and they’ll chew you apart.” A hesitation. “And me with you.”
“So then why am I here?” I ask. “Why me?”
“How much truth you want?” he asks.
“Make it real, Paxton. Never lie to me, and never sugarcoat it.”
He nods. “I respect that, and I ask the same from you in return.” He tosses an olive in his mouth, washes it down with wine. “So here’s the truth. You asked me this already, and I answered truthfully. But you want to go deeper, obviously. You challenge me. You don’t fall for my shit. You’re not intimated by me, or by my mom.”
“Wrong,” I cut in, laughing a little. “Your mom scares the poop out of me.”
He laughs with me. “And well she should. In a world of barracudas, she’s a Great White shark.” He waves a hand. “But the point is, you don’t let that slow you down or make you feel like less. You’re in a whole new world, and you’ve got your head high, and you’re not just laying down and rolling over.” A hesitation. “Truth is, most women in your position would have slept with me already. You haven’t. You’ve got the grit to stick to your guns. You’ve got pride. You’re smart.”
I hold up a finger. “Smart, yes. Educated, no.”
He waves a hand, dismissing my distinction. “Not important—not as long as you project confidence.” He sips again. “You go into this dinner, and I want you to be the woman who snorted at my mother in the penthouse. The woman who tells me I’m an arrogant entitled prick.” A grin. “Just don’t actually call me that in front of Matt and Isla.”
“If you act like one, I’ll call you one.” I sip my wine for the first time, and as I expect, it’s as rich and expensive tasting as I would expect from wine in a cut crystal decanter. “Can’t have just part of the attitude, Paxton.”
He nods. “Well, I suppose that’s the risk I’m taking, huh?”
And then Amanda is here—tall, black, willowy, lean, talkative, with a wild burst of natural hair, she’s an explosive flurry of activity and energy. She sits me in the chair in front of the vanity in my closet, fingers rifling and twisting expertly through my hair, fingering the ends, tugging on the curls, examining my scalp, scrunching handfuls this way and that, chattering nonstop—a flow of words that washes over me like a river around a boulder. It’s clear I’m not expected to respond, and I don’t.
“Wow, you just have the most amazing hair! You obviously haven’t had a trim in a long time, though—I mean, look at these split ends, girl. No time for that today, but get it done. I’d even go several inches off.” She lifts my hair and tucks it under itself to mimic the look of shorter hair. “Like this, maybe. Not super short, unless you’re fierce enough to really pull that off, but at least a little bit to keep the ends healthy. Gotta moisturize more too, your shit is dry, honey. You’re doing great with your face, though. Nice healthy pores goin’ on…I’m guessing you don’t wear a lot of makeup, or not frequently. Wish I had that confidence, I’m telling you—I can’t go anywhere without my face on…”
And so on like that as she kneads some kind of goop into my hair and plays with it seemingly at random, and then adds something else and keeps playing, and then suddenly my hair looks…incredible. Loose, bouncy, glossy, with perfect shape, falling around my face and neck to frame my features and draping against my shoulder blades just so.