He smiles brightly. “Good, thank you. For now, though, we have photographs.”
The next thirty minutes are spent wandering the grounds of St. Patrick’s, being followed by a photographer with four cameras hanging by straps from her body, directing us to stand this way and that, pose this way, now kiss, hold it, okay good now kiss his cheek… and so on, until I’m ready to scream.
Then, finally, the photographs are done, and it’s just me and Paxton alone in the church, with Liam standing at attention by the doors.
I sigh, wearily. “Well, husband—now what?”
He grins. “You’re not my wife yet, actually.”
I frown. “Um. I said I do, and we exchanged rings.” I wiggle my ring finger at him, so the massive double diamonds glint, and the platinum wedding band behind it glistens. “I think that makes us married.”
“Almost, but not quite.” He smiles at me. “There’s one more thing to do, yet.”
I frown harder. “I’ve not really attended that many weddings but I think, other than the reception, we’ve done everything.”
He just smiles even more vaguely. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
I sigh, nod, and tuck my hand in his arm. “Okay. Lead the way.”
The way turns out to be a black Mercedes sedan, and a drive through Manhattan to a nondescript glass-and-steel high-rise in Tribeca. Instead of the penthouse suite I imagined, Liam leads the way past even the penthouse, to the roof.
A small private helicopter is waiting, engine warming up, rotors moving gently. I blink at Paxton. “A helicopter?”
He nods. “Step one.”
“You’re being kind of mysterious,” I say, hunting his expression for a clue about what’s happening.
“Just trust me, okay? This is for you.”
“For me?”
He nods, a hand stuffed in his tuxedo pocket. “Yep. For you.”
I sigh, and climb into the helicopter, accepting his hand as assistance for the step up. The interior is as luxurious and sleek as the inside of the fancy armored Pullman limo, the seats quilted, hand-stitched white leather with built-in footrests and massage functions and heaters and cupholders, and a cooler for champagne, and expansive views in almost three hundred and sixty degrees.
Liam and Paxton climb in, buckle, and then the rotors spin up to speed and there’s a sense of weightlessness as we lift off. I hold Paxton’s hand tightly, but my mind is too busy trying to figure out where we’re going to be scared.
A ten-minute ride brings us to a private section of the airport, where one of the deBraun’s fleet of jets waits, engines running. I’m starting to get an inkling about what we’re doing, but don’t dare hope.
It’s a two-hour flight, which I spend restless, anxious. Despite having made this flight nearly every day for the last few weeks, it seems to take longer than ever.
Finally, we land, and the now-familiar Pullman is waiting. We make the drive from Pellston to Petoskey in record time, and when we pull up in front of an all-too-familiar nursing home, my heart seems to leap and break at the same time.
The car stops, but I don’t get out. I stare at Paxton, my eyes watering. “Pax?”
“Are you ready for our real wedding?”
“Real wedding?”
“That scene in New York? That was for Mom, and for the media.” He waves at the nursing home. “This is for us.”
22
2Liam opens the limousine door, hands me out, and Paxton follows; together, him in his tux and me in the antique, heirloom wedding gown, we go inside. The hallways are so familiar, smelling antiseptic, quiet, our shoes squeaking and clicking. Heads poke out, white hair and wrinkles, eyes watching, smiles.
There is a courtyard, and it’s one of the reasons Mom chose this place—her nurses bring her out to the courtyard every day unless it’s raining or snowing. It’s small, just a square of open space created by the layout of the building, filled with box shrubs and Japanese dwarf maples, some brightly colored perennials wandering in rows between stone-lined walkways. It’s peaceful, quiet, and lovely.
Today, it’s lovelier than ever—Pax clearly had his people work their magic: white gauzy silk is draped from tree to tree, lit with soft golden light from twinkling strands, creating a heavenly canopy. A white, rose-wreathed arch stands in the center of the courtyard. Under the arch stands a pastor holding a leather-bound folder.
Off to one side, Mom. In a wheelchair, alert, awake, beaming. Dressed in a beautiful champagne gown, her hair in an elaborate updo, makeup perfect.
Paxton walks me to Mom. “For you, Makayla.”
I blink back tears. Hug Mom. “Hi, Momma.”
She grabs my hand in a fierce grip, squeezes three times. Blinks back her own tears. She wants to speak, but she can’t. She doesn’t need to, though—I see everything she’s thinking and feeling in her eyes.
“I’m here, Mom.” I laugh through tears. “Ready for this wedding?”
She squeezes my hand again, once. Smiles at me. Swallows hard, breathing deeply. “Love…you…Mack.”
“I love you so much, Momma.”
She extends a shaky hand to Paxton, who kneels beside her, taking her hand in both of his. “Pax…”
“I’m here, Mrs. Poe.”
She gives him a long, deep, searching look. “Love…her?”
He nods, and he’s moved, blinking back tears of his own. “Yes, ma’am. I do. I love Makayla very much.”
A small, weak nod. “Give her…everything.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Break…heart…and I’ll…I’ll haunt you. Forever.” Despite her weakness, Mom somehow manages to sound hard and threatening.
Paxton laughs. “I can’t promise I won’t ever hurt her, because I’m a man and I’m an idiot. But I love her with all that I am, and I will take care of her with everything I’ve got.”
Mom turns her attention to me. “Love him?”
I nod, brushing tears away. “I do. I really do.”
“Four months, Mack. Sure?”
I laugh. “I think sometimes, love at first sight takes a while to kick in.”
Mom nods, a wobbly bob of her head. Paxton’s hand in one of hers, mine in the other, she presses Paxton’s hand over mine, sandwiched between hers. “Bless you.” Her eyes search mine, his. “Love is work. Do the work.” We both nod and promise, and Mom lets us go. Juts her chin at the arch. “Get married, then.”
And so, we do.
The pastor’s words to Pax and me are simple, and brief. “Today is about union. It’s about love. There is no audience, here, only two witnesses. Others have written with greater eloquence than I’m capable of on the topic of love and marriage, so I’ll just refer you to First Corinthians, the thirteenth chapter, which many consider to be the single greatest passage on love ever written. I’m tempted to read you the whole chapter, but I won’t. I’ll just quote you verses four through eight, and ask you, Paxton and Makayla, to consider them every day as you embark on this journey of marriage: ‘Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.’”
He lets those verses stand in the silence, resounding in our minds.
Then, he looks to Paxton. “You have something to say, I believe.”
Paxton nods, inhales slowly, holds it, and then smiles at me—it’s a Paxton deBraun Special, proud and confident, arrogant, but now also leavened and softened by love. “I’m still not sure how this happened. How I managed to fall in love with you, and how you fell in love with me. I don’t get it.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I’ve been avoiding love and vulnerability my whole life, and then, right when I thought was safe, when I wasn’t looking, love came and snuck up on me and…here we are. Four months to the day after I was forced into accepting an arranged marr
iage, here we are, marrying for real. For love.”
The minister smiles at Pax. “You have vows, do you not?”
Pax laughs. “Yeah, I was getting there.” He sucks in a breath, lets it out shakily. “Makayla, my vows are simple. I promise to love you as best I know how, and to spend every day learning how to be better at loving you. I promise to be open, honest, vulnerable, and faithful.” A pause, a grin. “I also promise that life will never be boring.”
I’m choking back tears, because it’s my turn and everything I had in my mind to say has fled. “Pax…” I breathe in, steady myself. “I promise to spend the rest of our lives learning how to love you the way he—” I point at the minister, “just said love is supposed to be.”
“Those are St. Paul’s words, not mine,” the minister says, gently correcting me with a soft smile.
“I promise to be faithful. To never give up. To forgive you when you piss me off. To be your best friend, your partner in everything. I promise I’ll never stop calling you on your shit—” I glance at the minister. “Ooops, sorry. Your crap.”
He just grins. “I’m not offended, and I don’t think God is either. He loves everyone, even potty mouths.”
I laugh through tears. “Good. Anyway. And I also promise that life with me will never, ever be boring.”
This time, it’s meaningful, deeply and personally intentional and moving, when I say the words.
“Do you, Makayla Poe, take this man, Paxton deBraun, to be your lawfully and spiritually wedded husband, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
I sniffle, squeeze both of his hands three times. “I do.”
“And do you, Paxton deBraun, take this woman, Makayla Poe, to be your lawfully and spiritually wedded wife, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
He inhales deeply, smiling at me with the full force of his bright, dominant, forceful, beautiful personality. “I do.”
“Then, by the power vested in me by the state of Michigan, and, more importantly, by God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, I now pronounce you man and wife.” He pauses, hesitating with a grin. “You may kiss—”
Paxton’s got that part down, his lips on mine, hot and searching and demanding.
“I guess you know,” the minister says.
I laugh even as Paxton kisses me breathless.
It is in no way a kiss appropriate for a wedding, but I don’t care, and neither does Paxton. It’s a kiss that speaks the words he’s still learning how to voice, that I’m still learning how to hear. It’s a kiss that encompasses the wild, insane, reckless way we fell in love.
It’s a kiss that speaks of our future.
When the kiss finally ends, Paxton is still holding me in his arms, bent over backward in a deep dip, his hand on the back of my head, the other at my back, his lips brushing mine.
“Can I say it now?” he whispers.
I laugh, nod. “Yes,” I breathe. “You can say it now.”
He kisses me again, briefly. His eyes twinkle, sparkle, dance. “I love you, Makayla.”
To hear those words, meant with such sweet, soul-deep sincerity, breaks my heart into a million pieces, tangles the pieces and twines them and braids them and weaves them into the pieces which make up Paxton, and reforms me into a new whole, one with Paxton, in a way I would never have considered possible, until now.
“I love you, Paxton.” He lifts me upright, and I can finally breathe again. “Now what?”
“Now we spend a few minutes with your mom, and then we fly back to Manhattan for the reception, and then from there we fly to the Seychelles, where my wedding gift to you awaits.”
“The where, and your what?” I blink at him. “My what?”
“Tropical islands off the coast of Africa.” He grins. “You’re gonna freak out, so I’m not going to tell you.”
“Paxton deBraun, I swear, if you bought me an entire island or something, I’m going to…” I laugh, sigh, and shake my head. “Well, I’ll just tell you that I hope you plan on helping me fill it with kids.”
He smirks. “It’s not a whole island.”
I sigh in relief. “Oh, good.”
“Just most of one.”
“Paxton.”
He eyes me warily. “When you say fill it with kids, though…how many are you thinking, and how soon?”
I just grin. “I don’t know. Half a dozen at least. And…soon.”
“I feel like we should’ve discussed this before now.”
I laugh. “I’m teasing, mostly.” I pat his chest. “I do want kids someday, though.”
Mom takes my hand, squeezes. I give her my attention, and she’s glowing. “I could probably…hang on for…a few more…years…for a…a grandbaby.”
I kneel beside her and hug her as tightly as I dare. “You better.”
“Happy?” she asks, smiling up at me.
“Beyond happy, Mom.” I kiss her cheek. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Making me give him a chance. I wouldn’t have, otherwise.”
“Love is…worth the risk.” She brings my hands to her lips, kisses my knuckles. “Besides…he’s cute.”
I grin up at Paxton. “Hear that, honey? Mom thinks you’re cute.”
He has produced, from somewhere, three champagne flutes, and a bottle of champagne—which, knowing him probably cost more than this entire building. He pops the cork, pours bubbly champagne into the three flutes, and hands them to us. Mom holds hers carefully, in both hands, and we toast.
“To you, Mrs. Poe—for encouraging your daughter give a man like me a chance.”
Mom smiles, shakes her head, and summons her strength. “To you two, and to love—may it last forever.” She sips, a tiny, token sip, and then rests the flute on her lap.
She’s tired, I can tell.
We spend a few more minutes with her, and then she’s falling asleep, and I hold her, hug her, kiss her cheek, and promise to come see her soon.
Two hours later, we’re back in Manhattan, celebrating with a bunch of people we don’t know. Or, I don’t. Paxton seems to, but he’s never far from my side, introducing me to people as his wife, beaming with pride.
The celebration goes late into the night, but at some point well past midnight, Paxton spirits me away from the reception and into the helicopter once more—it takes us to the airport again, and this time to a much larger jet—his father’s executive whatever monstrosity. I’m half asleep by this point, and take little notice of what it looks like. I’m content to let Paxton sweep me off my feet, literally, and carry me into a bedroom, lay me on the bed, help me out of my dress and into a big soft T-shirt of his, and he cradles me in his arms as the jet takes off and whisks us away somewhere remote.
I don’t care where we go—I’m where I want to be.
Epilogue
Eight years later
* * *
I’m standing in the cold, bundled up in a thick, warm, but fashionable jacket. It’s January 20, and I’m watching my husband swear an oath.
“…And will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.” He’s nervous, I can tell—who wouldn’t be? He’s proud, though, and eager, and excited, and fearful.
Beside me, on my right, is our eldest son, Jackson, seven, with his father’s golden eyes and dark hair, and my dark skin and fiery attitude. To my left is our daughter, Cambria, five, fair-skinned like her father but with my curly black hair and my eyes, with her father’s confidence and self-assured arrogance.
Camilla watches from beside Cambria—that’s an oddity, Camilla and Cambria. Camilla fell in love with Jackson, being so much like Paxton as he is. But it was Cambria who truly changed Camilla, and not just because she was named in honor of her grandmother. Something about Cambria just…changed Camilla. Sweetened her, softened her. They’re holding hands, right now, actually, and
while my relationship with Camilla is sometimes still awkward and tense, seeing the way she is with my daughter is enough.
They both have elements which remind me of Mom; Jackson has her smile, and Cambria has her laugh. My chest tightens whenever I think about Mom—she passed a couple years ago. She hung on so she could meet her grandchildren, kiss them, bless them, and it means the world to me that Mom got to meet my babies.
Paxton removes his hand from the Bible, shoots me a cocky grin and a wink that says Hey, baby—guess who just got sworn in as president.
I couldn’t be more proud of him. He campaigned on a promise of bringing together the divisive political scene, and even in the process of running for president began the work of uniting politicians from both sides as only Paxton could—the election was a landslide of record-breaking proportions, with voters from all walks of life coming out to put their faith in Paxton and his promises of unity, healing, and progress.
God knows he’s accomplished those things in his own life—repairing and improving his relationship with his mother, especially since the birth of Cambria, and making inroads into a relationship with his father, who is mostly retired now. Paxton did end up taking over his father’s company, but restructured it to run it to only need his input a few times a year, and with most of the profits going into a family trust for our kids and eventual grandkids.
The rest of the ceremony is a blur, and I have eyes only for my husband.
Eight years, two kids, and a stupid amount of money later, and my husband is still shooting me those cocky, cheesy winks, and I’m still falling for them.
When we finally get a moment alone, he curls an arm low around my hips and kisses the shell of my ear. “Well, Madam First Lady. How do you feel?”
“Proud of you,” I whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “And more in love than ever.”
Paxton laughs. “Not bad for an arranged fake marriage between people who knew each other barely four months, right?”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Not bad.” I lean up to whisper in his ear. “Now, let’s get the rest of this nonsense over with. I need to show my husband, the president of the United States, exactly how proud of him I really am.”