Page 43 of Married in Michigan
I glance his way. “Business interests?”
Another shrug. “Sure. I have plans for a long political career, but I’m also interested in diversifying my assets, just in case.”
“What kind of business?”
He blinks my way. “Ummm, this and that. Luxury real estate in LA, telecom-slash-media in New York, import-export in London. Just dabbling in various things my family has ties to, you know? Easy investments with minimal oversight from me, until and unless I want to start leaning into those endeavors.”
I laugh. “What a weird, wild world you live in, Paxton.” I gesture at him. “Well, lead the way, I suppose.”
He waves toward a side door I hadn’t noticed the last time I was here. “This way.”
Through the rows and rows of gleaming cars, each one worth more than I’ve ever made in my entire life—probably more than what Mom and I have made in our lives combined—and then we pass through the door in the far side of the garage, which leads to…another garage.
I pause in the doorway as I see yet more rows of vehicles. “Seriously?” I say with a cackle. “How many cars do ya’ll have?”
He taps his chin. “Hmmm. No clue, never added them all up.” He gestures to the larger garage we just left. “Those are the collection.” Another wave of his hand to this other, much smaller garage. “These are the daily drivers, the noncollector cars. Just your average, run-of-the-mill, everyday cars.”
I stroll through and examine the cars here: I see two Range Rovers—one brand, sparkling new, the other older and more beat up, but not a collector item, apparently—a long, sleek, new Mercedes Benz sedan, a boxy, white Mercedes SUV, a quick-looking little blue two-door BMW, a handful of motorcycles ranging from choppers to antiques to crotch rocket sport bikes, and an older and well-used Mercedes convertible sedan.
I laugh. “Not a single thing here is run-of-the-mill, Paxton. I think you’re wildly out of touch with reality.”
“Well, yeah, probably,” he says with a chuckle. “My first car at sixteen was a one of ten ever made Jag.”
“Jag?” I ask.
He frowns. “Jaguar?”
I snort. “Oh. Right. Sorry, I just know literally zero about cars.”
Paxton laughs. “Clearly.” He points at the new Mercedes sedan. “We’re taking that. I just have to find Johnny.”
A voice from behind us. “Here, sir.”
Paxton jumps, whirls. “Dude, you are a ghost. Were you in the SAS or something?”
John doesn’t react at all. “No, sir. Something rather more challenging: the British Butler Institute.”
I snicker, thinking he’s joking. “The British Butler Institute. Good one.”
John only stares at me. “I was serious, ma’am.”
My eyes widen. “It’s a real thing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.” I wrinkle my nose. “What do you learn in butler school?”
“How to be a butler, ma’am.” A beat of silence as I work out how to respond. “That was a joke, ma’am.” He smiles, a smooth curve of his lips. “Posture and bearing, elocution, etiquette, things like that.” He turns to address Paxton. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“We’re heading to DC, so we need a ride to Pellston, and I need you to have them warm up the jet for me.”
John nods. “Yes, sir. Of course.” A pause. “Will you require a meal, or a particular beverage selection for the trip, sir?”
Paxton waves a hand in dismissal. “Nah. It’s a short hop.” He eyes me, and then turns back to John. “Um, one thing. She was never here, okay? I’m working something out with Mom, and I’d like my association with Miss Poe kept…private. Yeah?”
A subtle nod. “Certainly, sir. Mrs. deBraun is on holiday in Marseilles at the moment, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good to know,” Paxton says. “She can be hard to reach when she’s on vacation.”
