He laughs, too, equally emotionally fraught. “I know. I just realized we’d made an agreement and just went along with my mom’s plan. But I never actually asked you, and you don’t have a ring, and I want this to be real, even if it is happening in the strangest way possible.”
I look down at the ring. “It’s incredible.”
He laughs, a bark of sarcasm. “So, Makayla. Will you?”
I nod, biting my lip. “Yes,” I whisper, laughing. “I will.”
He holds the ring up to the light, and the brilliant gleam is blinding. “Do you want to know about this ring?”
I smile, biting my lip to keep from laughing. “There’s a story?”
He nods. “Of course there is,” he says, grinning, and I hear him take on his I’m-about-to-lecture voice. “The two center stones were mined in the early eighteen hundreds, and purchased by my great-great-great-grandfather at a cost that would make your eyes water even by today’s standards. He kept them as family heirlooms for the next fifty years, until my great-great-grandfather had them made into two plain diamond solitaire rings. And by plain, I only mean simple, but no less beautiful. He gave them to his daughters, and they wore them as wedding rings until they both died together in a train accident in France near the turn of the century.”
I stare at the diamonds. “Blood diamonds for real, then, huh?”
He smiles. “Don’t worry, there’s a happy ending.” He traces the filigree. “So, when the wreckage was cleared and the bodies were recovered, the rings were intact, but destroyed beyond repair. My great-grandfather took the rings with the heirloom diamonds to a master jeweler in London, during the Edwardian era. The master jeweler used the diamonds to create this ring, and many years later, my great-grandfather gave it to his daughter, my grandmother. She wore it until the day she died, and left it to me in her will.” He grins sheepishly. “I’ve had it since in a safety deposit box since she passed, ten years ago, and honestly forgot about it until this morning, when I realized I never actually asked you properly to marry me.” He takes my left hand in his. “So now, my family heirloom belongs to you.”
“It’s too much, Paxton.”
“Each diamond is a full two carats, with another carat’s worth in smaller stones, set in nearly two-hundred-year-old platinum.” His eyes meet mine. “I grew up staring at this ring on Grandma’s finger, knowing she would give it to me. And I always wondered whom I would give it to. I’d honestly given up thinking I would find anyone worthy of wearing it.”
I swallow hard. “Is it another priceless artifact, with a value of a small nation’s GDP?”
He shakes his head. “You’re what’s priceless, Makayla. It’s just a ring.”
“That’s been in your family in this state for over a hundred years.”
“Stop arguing.” He frowns at me, but there’s a smile under it. “It’s mine to give, and I want you to wear it.”
It’s so heavy on my finger, weighty in both size and age, as well as value. “Only because it was your grandmother’s.”
A knock on the door. “Hello? Are you decent, Makayla?” It’s Julie, entering carrying a huge white dress bag over her arm.
“Yes,” I call out, over Paxton’s shoulder. “I’m here.”
She sees Paxton kneeling in front of me, holding my hand, and her eyes immediately water. “Oh, Paxton. You asked her for real?”
Paxton nods. “I did.” He stands up. “Now, you’d better get her dressed so we can get married.” He indicates the dress bag. “Is that going to make Mom shit puppies?”
Julie grins wickedly. “Puppies, kittens, camels, and cows.”
“Good.” He leans over me, kisses me softly. “Still not saying it, but you know it.”
I push him away. “Same. Now go away so I can get dressed.” I smile. “You made me cry, and you just messed up my lipstick. The glam squad is going to kill you.”
He waves a hand. “The glam squad is getting rich off this.” He heads for the door. “You’re beautiful.”
I laugh. “I’m in a dressing gown, you goose.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I’d marry you wearing that.”
“I know.” I bite my lip again. “It’s crazy, but I know.”
Julie pushes him out. “God, you two are so cute it makes me sick.” She hangs the dress on a hook on the back of the door, unzips it, and withdraws a sculpture of lace and silk. “Now this…oh my god, Makayla. This dress. You don’t even know.”
My eyes fill. “Don’t tell me—it was his grandmother’s.”
She nods. “Yes.” She pets the dress lovingly.
“What about the one I chose and we had altered?”
“Those were chosen by Camilla.” She helps me out of my dressing gown and into the dress; I move with exquisite care, so as to not accidentally snag the lace. “This is, well…it’s an antique, a priceless vintage piece.”
I sigh. “Everything is a priceless antique with these people.”
“Well, when you can afford literally anything, the only way to own something truly priceless is if it’s an historical piece, and the deBraun family prides themselves on tradition and history.” She buttons the back of the dress.
I bite my lip, holding my breath as she tucks and shoves and squeezes me into the dress. “How the—ohmygod—” I gasp as she fastens the last button, “how the hell can I fit into it? I know for a fact I’d be a giant by Edwardian standards.”
Julie doesn’t answer until I’m into it. Her expression makes me nervous. “We had it altered to fit you.”
“It’s a priceless antique,” I protest.
“And it was altered by a master seamstress working with a fashion historian, along with Vera Wang herself.” A dreamy look comes over Julie’s face. “What an honor that was.”
I blink. “Of course,” I sigh. “Paxton.”
“Paxton,” Julie agrees.
“Camilla really is going to shit puppies.”
Julie’s eyes widen. “You don’t even know. She tried to get someone to alter it so she could wear it at her wedding, but the executors of the deBraun archival estate wouldn’t let her.” She grins. “Paxton got permission somehow, but he had to sneak it out from under his mother’s nose.”
I sigh and then laugh. “He’s really going out of his way to rub her nose in this, isn’t he?”
Julie nods, stepping back to admire me in the dress. “Very much so.” She turns me around to face the mirror. “There, now look.”
It’s delicate, ivory from age, and if it has indeed been altered, it was done with such consummate skill that I can’t tell. It’s full-sleeved and the neckline is high, but the sleeves from shoulder down are sheer lace, and the neckline is a crisscross web of silk and sheer lace over my cleavage, so that while the gown bows to Edwardian notions of modesty, it’s graceful and elegant and even sexy, in a demure sort of way; the silk falls to mid-thigh, where sheer silk embroidered with delicate flowers twine around my legs, the hem scalloped above my feet and draping behind me in a long train.
It’s so beautiful, so elegant, and bears such personal history that I have to fight back tears.
Julie is crying, too. “I’ve worked for the family for a very long time, and this is my favorite moment, ever.” A sniffed laugh. “At least, until Camilla sees you.”
“How does he manage this stuff?” I ask.
“He’s Paxton deBraun.” She glances a tiny silver watch. “Speaking of which, it’s time.”
I swallow hard. “I’m suddenly not ready.”
Julie pats me on the cheek. “Yes you are. And anyway, this part isn’t for you, it’s for Camilla.”
“This part?” I ask.
Julie’s eyes widen and she shrugs, face suddenly blank. “I just mean…” She waves a hand. “I don’t know what I mean.”
I hear organ music somewhere far away, and while it’s not the wedding march, it’s a signal that it’s time for me to take my place at the doors.
I follow Julie, swallowing nerves
. A young woman from the glam squad finds me and walks backward in front of me, touching up my makeup, while another fiddles with my hair, and they fuss and fuss until I huff.
“Enough,” I say, trying not to snap at them out of nerves. “Thank you. I think it’s fine.”
They vanish, just like that, and it’s me and Julie and we’re gliding down a long dark hallway, and I see a pair of wide double doors, and Liam is waiting on this side of them, in a tuxedo of his own.
Liam is Paxton’s best man, and he’s also giving me away—I never knew my own father, and I still haven’t met Paxton’s, and so Liam is the only man I know other than Paxton...and we’re best of friends, after these months of being driven around by him and guarded by him and pranked by him.
He offers me his arm, and I tuck my hand around his elbow. His smile is dangerous and eager and comforting. “Ready?”
I sigh. “No.” I lift my chin, steel my spine. “Yes.”
“Attagirl,” Liam says, in his deep, raspy soldier’s voice. “Focus on Paxton, all right? Don’t worry about anyone else.”
“If I trip, will you catch me?” I ask, feeling wobbly on the delicate ivory heels, clutching the bouquet of white roses in a death grip.
“You know it.” He eyes me. “Cold feet?”
I smile at him. “Nervous, but no. His mom is going to hate me.”
“I’m not sure there’s anyone she actually likes, so that’s okay.”
I feel a wave of melancholy. “I wish my own mom was here.”
Liam is oddly silent on that, and only pats my hand. “Of course you do.”
Mom has gotten worse during these last couple of weeks before the wedding—Paxton’s plans to bring her to DC to live with us fell through, because she was too sick to move, and so I’ve made the flight out to see her nearly every day. I think seeing me learning how to be happy with Paxton has given her permission to stop fighting so hard, which is heartbreaking for me, but I can see how tired she is. I saw her last night, and she was in and out of consciousness. She saw me, kissed my cheek, told me she loved me—three squeezes of her hand.
I blink hard, push all that away.
Bum-BUM-bum-bum….
The organ is loud, and I hear a rustle of people standing up.
The doors open.
I see Pax standing at the altar, and suddenly everything is okay—the whole world narrows down to him, and only him. I don’t even see the world-famous interior of St. Patrick’s—just Paxton.
I’m aware of whispers as the audience sees me for the first time.
I ignore them all.
Focus on Paxton’s grin.
One voice cuts through my screen: Camilla’s.
“No!” Shrill, angry. “No!”
“Mother, enough,” Paxton snaps.
“Not her!”
“Yes, Mother, her.” Paxton is proud, and I’ve never heard such triumph in a voice before.
I manage to widen my scope of sight to take in Camilla, standing in front of me, fury crackling in her eyes.
“You!” she snarls.
I summon a polite smile. “Hi, Camilla.”
She whirls on Paxton. “A hotel maid, Paxton? Really?”
Paxton’s eyes go glacial, sharper than obsidian and harder than diamond. “You’re embarrassing yourself, Mother.”
She clicks her teeth together, and then she looks me over, and goes pale as eggshells. “Mother’s gown?” Then her eyes fix on the ring on my finger. “The ring? Paxton, really? The ring?”
Paxton descends the steps and takes my hands in his, leads me past the fuming dragon that is Camilla deBraun. We stand face to face in front of the minister, pastor, reverend, priest, whatever.
“This is too much, Paxton. I won’t allow it.”
Paxton grins. “I’ve bad news for you, Mom.” He gestures at the cathedral. “You put deposits down on the venue, and everything else. Guess what, Mom? I paid for it all. So, this isn’t your wedding anymore. You planned it, and by god you did an amazing job, I must say. But it’s now my wedding.” He kisses my knuckles. “Our wedding.”
She narrows her eyes, and she seems ready to spit on the floor out of sheer rage. “Quit pretending, Paxton.”
He laughs. “Funny thing is, Mom, up until about three weeks ago, I would have been pretending.” He smiles at me. “Then an odd thing happened.”
Camilla eyes me, and I let every ounce of my nascent, still-growing love for Paxton bleed through into my gaze.
“I fell in love.” He laughs again. “I got engaged because you made me.” He squeezes my hands three times. “I’m getting married because I love her.”
Camilla huffs and whirls away, preparing to march out.
“Mom, wait,” Paxton calls out, and she stops.
“What, Paxton?” she snaps, her voice icy and brittle.
I laugh under my breath, because all this is happening in front of a packed-out crowd of high-profile guests, the minister, and even media.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, giving her a genuine smile, all shit-eating gleeful revenge gone, now. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have never met Makayla. So, I really do hope you stay.” A thick, stifling pause. “You’re the guest of honor, after all.”
She bites down on her lip, sighing deeply. “You’re too cruel, Paxton.”
A shake of his head. “I mean it. You did this to force my hand, and I did it to get back at you, in a lot of ways—from it being Makayla, to the dress and the ring. But now, I’m doing it out of love, and all it’s because of you.” He leaves me at the altar, descends to stand in the middle of the aisle in front of his mother. “Stay. Please.”
A tear slides down her cheek, and she has enough steel in her spine and pride in her soul that it makes her more elegant, stronger for the emotion. “My mother’s dress, Paxton,” she whispers.
“And Grandma’s ring.”
Camilla stares at him. It’s a frozen tableau, not a sound to be heard—not a cough, not a sniffle, not a breath. “Truly, Paxton? It’s not all some elaborate game?”
Instead of answering himself, he looks to me. “Makayla?”
“I would marry him even if he didn’t have a penny to his name, and I would marry him in front of a justice of the peace, just the two of us.” I catch my breath, looking around for the first time at the enormity of the gathered audience hanging on every moment of this drama. “I’d probably be happier with that, honestly,” I mutter under my breath.
She stares at me, examining me, searching me, and then turns back to her son. “If this is a joke, I’ll never forgive you, Paxton.”
He holds her hand. “Look at me, Mom. You know me as well as anyone besides Makayla and Liam. Do I look like I’m faking this?”
He lets her search him, and it’s another long, silent moment.
“Only you could pull this off,” she says, summoning her pride. “Very well.”
And with that, Camilla deBraun takes a seat in the first pew on the left side of the aisle, folding her hands on her lap, spine straight, head high; she is poised, elegant, and polished, as if nothing had ever happened.
Paxton returns to me, gathers my hands in his, and smiles at me. “That went well.”
I huff. “Is that sarcasm?”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “Not at all. I expected more of a blowout, honestly.”
The priest/minister clears his throat meaningfully. “If that’s all settled, shall we begin?”
I look out at the crowd again, and my breath hitches in my throat: I see A-list Hollywood actors, men and women whom I’ve grown up watching on the silver screen, and I see powerful, influential politicians looking polished and professional in thousand-dollar suits, and I see rock stars and musicians decked out in dramatic leather and dripping jewelry and tattoo ink, and I see a coalition of deBrauns in the rows behind Camilla watching with bored curiosity; both sides of the aisle are full, and not one person is here for me.
The only person here for me is the man I�
�m standing with.
I suck in a sharp, harsh, fast breath. Nod once. “I’m ready.”
Paxton squeezes my hands—three times; I never told him about that, but he figured it out, watching me with my mother.
God, I miss her.
I wish she could be here.
My eyes water, and I blink hard. Paxton doesn’t have to ask. “I know, Mack. It’s okay.”
The minister begins speaking, droning in a stentorian voice about the power of love and the weighty responsibility of marriage, and the importance of God being the center of any relationship.
I think perhaps the minister catches a whiff of Paxton’s impatience, because he stumbles once, and seems to skip ahead in his prepared remarks.
Then, finally, we’re led through canned, recycled vows, and I say them dutifully, even though there’s so much else I wanted to say, vows I’ve been writing in my head for days now. But Paxton just seems to want to get through this as much as I do, because he repeats the vows without looking away from me, and then the minister asks the fated, heavy question:
“Do you, Makayla, take this man, Paxton, to be your lawfully wedded husband, now and forever, for better and for worse, till death do you part?”
I swallow hard, swallow a shaky breath, and nod. “I do,” I whisper.
Holy shit. I just said I do.
Paxton answers the same question, but with no hesitation, and in a much stronger voice. He smiles as he says it, confident and proud.
We turn to face the crowd. “May I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Paxton deBraun,” the minister announces, and there is a loud cheer.
Paxton raises one hand, the other holding tightly on to mine. “Thank you for coming everyone, and please, join us at the Four Seasons at six thirty for the reception. See you all then!”
I blink at that announcement. “Six thirty?” I ask. “It’s just now two.”
He winks at me. “I know.”
“So what are we doing for the few hours?”
“Photographs, for one thing.” A long, serious look. “And something else, which you’ll just have to trust me about.”
I breathe carefully, searching him. Finally, I nod. “Okay, I trust you.”