Page 71 of Married in Michigan

I don’t WANT to like him. I want to keep pretending he’s just a spoiled rich white boy with a big ego. But he’s not.

Every night we go home, we linger in the kitchen until late, talking. We sit at the island and share a snack and a nightcap, and…Paxton unloads.

I’m not sure when it started. At first, it was just a chance to kick off my shoes and get a little snack before bed, and somehow it’s turned into my favorite part of the day. Even if we don’t have an event or a dinner, he works late, and that’s his time to unwind. Pour some whiskey, have some ice cream or nachos, and vent.

He just wants me to listen, I’ve realized. I don’t have to follow what he’s talking about.

Like tonight.

The wedding is in a month; I’m scheduled for my dress fitting tomorrow, and Paxton’s bill—meant to establish baseline funding for research on homelessness and how to solve it—is getting voted on. He’s been working on this bill for months now; every dinner date, every cocktail mixer has been focused on pumping up support and getting votes. He’s mega stressed.

I’m freaking out myself, because I’m getting fitted for my wedding dress tomorrow—alone. There’s a selection to choose from, and Julie will be there to help me decide, and then it gets fitted and altered, and it’s just me because I have no friends, no family here in DC.

I haven’t seen Mom in almost two months, and I’m dying inside. I call her every day, or nearly, but it’s just not the same as seeing her, sitting with her, holding her hand.

What if she’s deteriorating? What if something happens and I’m not there? Paxton bought me a cell phone, and I’ve given the hospice my number with instructions to call me if anything comes up. But it’s not the same.

I have to see her. I have to be there with her. She has bad days and good days, and she needs me on both.

And I’m not there.

I’m here, in DC, playing dutiful fiancé to a wealthy, influential, rising political star.

There have been reports of me, some blurry photographs taken from a distance by desperate paparazzi, but Paxton has been careful to make sure the media has no clue who I am. There are rumors, of course. The buzz blogs are going nuts with speculation as to whom America’s most eligible and desirable bachelor is making the DC rounds with. There are reports, descriptions, lies, truths…the rumor mill is churning. Paxton is avoiding his mother’s phone calls, which are nonstop, now.

Paxton is talking, but for once, I’m unable to focus. He notices.

“Makayla?” His voice cuts through my mental scrum.

I blink at him. “Huh?”

He laughs ruefully. “You’re somewhere else tonight.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m not being a very good listener tonight.”

He tilts his head. “You know, I’ve been venting to you every night for weeks now, and I’m realizing I do all the talking.”

I chuckle. “You’ve never had anyone to vent to, have you?”

He shakes his head, swirling ice and whiskey. “No, not really.” A glance at me. “You?”

I shrug. “My mom, usually.” A pause. “But that’s a tricky situation.”

“Why is it tricky?”

Nope, not ready to go there with him. It’s too close, too vulnerable. I shake my head. “It’s a long story.”

He glances at his watch. “I’ve got time.” A warm, dizzying smile. “Talk to me, Makayla.”

What to say? “I just…I miss her. I haven’t seen her in two months, and that’s the longest I’ve ever been away from her. She has some health issues, too, and I just…I worry about her.”

“Health issues?” He seizes on that, of course.

I stifle a groan. “I just need to go see her.”

He waves a hand, the dismissive wave that saysconsider it handled. “Go see her, then.”

“I’m picking the dress tomorrow and getting fitted.” I rub my forehead. “And then there’s the dinner with Dom and Catalina Wednesday, and cocktails Thursday…”