Page 9 of Married in Michigan

“Can this wait until I’ve eaten something?” Paxton mutters.

She huffs, whips out a cell phone and dials a number. “Good morning, Julius. An egg white omelet with spinach, whole wheat toast, and a side of sweet potato hash. To the penthouse, thank you.”

Julius is the chef assigned to the penthouse when it’s occupied, and he’s a wizard with eggs—if he likes you, and you ask him nicely, he’ll make you an omelet after your shift, and god, the things the man can do with eggs and cheese are simply sinful.

Paxton groans. “Egg whites, Mother? Do I look like I need to watch my weight?”

I suppress a snicker at that, because he clearly can afford to eat a less-than-healthy breakfast. He’s ripped, without an ounce of extra fat anywhere on his body.

“Honestly, how you’ve managed to retain your physique with the way you live your life is beyond me.”

Paxton growls. “I work my ass off, actually. I’m in the gym ninety minutes a day, four days a week, and I run five miles the other three days.”

“And yet you drink your body weight in alcohol most nights.”

“Less than you’d think, actually. I host the parties, but I don’t get hammered at all of them.”

Camilla snorts. “You’re still drunk, Paxton. I’m not stupid.”

“Yes, I am. This was one of the rare nights I cut loose.” He sighs. “I’m not as irresponsible as you seem to think.”

“The media sees you as irresponsible and untrustworthy, Paxton. There have been articles in theHuffington Post, Vox,Variety,People, andTimeabout how you’re essentially a good-for-nothing playboy, less relevant and useful than even a reality TV star.”

“Who cares what the media has to say?” Paxton snarls. “I sure as hell don’t.”

“You sure as hellshould, as a matter of fact.” A heavy, significant pause. “Unless you’ve changed your mind regarding your political career.”

“I’m one of the youngest members of the House of Representatives, Mother.”

“And if you want to continue past the House, you need to clean up your image, Son.” Another of those somewhat sad, long-suffering, condescending, mothering sighs. “We’ve discussed this before, Paxton, but it’s reached critical mass. This latest party of yours is proof. A donkey, Paxton? Really?”

“A practical joke by Robert, Mother.”

“Well, I admire the fact that you have friends across the aisle, and we’ll need to leverage your bipartisan reputation certainly, but your Republican friend’s practical joke ruined a Persian rug hand-woven two hundred years ago, a rug which was a personal gift to me from the Sultan of Brunei himself.”

“Oh. Well. I’ll pay to have it replaced.”

“It cannot bereplaced, Paxton,” Camilla snarls. “It waspricelessandirreplaceable.”

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“There was also a snake in the tub, I’m told?”

A groan. “Crap, I forgot about that stupid snake. I told Drake not to bring it.”

“Well, animal control has it, now.”

“That’s Drake’s problem, not mine.”

“The point is, this has gone on long enough. It’s time to stop behaving like a careless frat boy. It’s time to settle down.”

During this exchange I’ve done my best on the hardwood floor, and have moved on to cleaning the furniture—vacuuming the donkey hair off the couches, polishing the coffee table, stain removal from various parts of the furniture—and all the while I’ve been listening to Camilla’s tirade, and a few stolen glances tell me Paxton is pretty much tuning her out.

“If you want to make the move to senator, and especially if you want to put yourself in position for Speaker or Majority Whip, you need a much cleaner image.” Camilla pauses. “You need a wife, Paxton.”

“I don’t want one.” Paxton sips coffee, as if this declaration is all he needs to say on the matter.

“You need a wife,” Camilla repeats. “You need a woman to soften your image, to give you the appearance of someone who has sowed his wild oats, making you relatable to the younger voters, but who has gotten serious and has the maturity to look at the issues clearly and responsibly.”