The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

Chapter Four: The Fake First Kiss

"You need shoes."

We just got to his snazzy, shiny dark blue sports car that was probably more than double the value of my house. He'd held the door open for me but stopped me with a light hand on my shoulder as I was about to get in.

I looked up at Brandon. "Excuse me?"

He sighed and glanced down at my feet. "We're going to one of the most exclusive jewelry stores in the country and you're wearing flip-flops. How will they know you can afford it?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a wry look. "They won't because I can't afford it. You're the one itching to marry me. You buy it."

"I am buying it," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "I was hoping you'd at least look like a woman who deserves it."

"Ah, we come to the crux of the matter," I scoffed. "I don't look like the kind of woman a man of your wealth and stature could possibly ever get engaged to. Let me point out two things. One, I really am not the kind of woman a man like you would marry—my brain is slightly bigger than my boobs which is not your preferred ratio. Two, what a shallow conclusion to arrive at simply because one is wearing flip-flops."

"It's not shallow—it's etiquette—something that isn't lost in polite society yet," he shot back, stepping away from the car door and making a shooing gesture with his hand as if hurrying me to get inside. Once I was in, he got into the driver's seat, still grumbling. "But since you're going to be the future Mrs. Maxfield, they won't dare criticize you to your face. Who knows, I might get lucky and just have them think that you're slightly eccentric and not a total bedlamite."

I laughed. "Oh, yes, an eccentric. That's what you call people who are rich and crazy. I'd almost think you're one but you don't have enough imagination to become crazy, even just a little."

He pulled into traffic, checking over his shoulder before giving me a surly look. "I dare say I have plenty of imagination."

"You can't even deal with the sight of flip-flops," I argued, throwing my hands up in the air. "You don't think beaches or cold fruit drinks or some reggae music and scorching hot summers. All you think is etiquette."

"Etiquette was merely the only thing I said out loud," he countered. "Unlike you, I don't always say everything I'm thinking of but it doesn't mean that I have any less scorching imagination than you do."

I broke into a grin. "Oh, intriguing. Why, what did you imagine? Billowy summer dresses? Tanned bikini bodies? Long, gorgeous legs?"

I fought the urge to pump my fist in triumph when Brandon's gaze slid to my partly exposed legs, his eyes hooded and intense for a brief second before he cleared his throat and turned back to the road, the very faint tinge of pink on his cheeks the only proof of that stolen glance.

Predictable. It would seem as if Brandon Maxfield is prone to the usual urges.

I decided to let him off the grill, completely aware that I might just burn myself as well.

Now that we've mentioned scorching hot summers, I couldn't help but imagine Brandon—shirtless, barefoot, only wearing black board shorts and a sexy smile. Despite having worn a jacket to each of our meetings, it didn't take much for me to know that he had broad shoulders and a powerful physique. In my fantasy, he would be showing off the hard planes of his chests and the tight, flexing muscles of arms.

As my eyes traveled from his shoulders to his waist, I noticed something and frowned. "Why aren't you wearing your seatbelt? Strap it on."

"We're five minutes away and hardly anyone can drive fast in downtown," he reasoned, sounding like a mutinous sixteen-year-old. "It'll be fine."