The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

Chapter One: The Proposal

I read somewhere that curdled milk is a bad omen.

It also said that some dream interpretations perceive it as a sign of dirty money. 

While that certainly brought on a sense of foreboding for the day that was to come, I told myself that the milk expired a week ago, and I just didn't have the money to do a grocery run yet. I also reasoned that since it was in my fridge and not in a dream, the interpretation couldn't be applicable.

I threw out the milk that morning. I made my own trail mix from crumbs at the bottom of the soda cracker box, some unsweetened chocolate chips from my dwindling baking supplies, and a handful of expired mixed nuts. After chasing down a half-bowl of it with a cup of black coffee, I got dressed and started my walk to the bus stop for my five a.m. shift at Marlow's.

The diner at the corner of Franklin St., in the center of the finance district, was a historical icon that both old and new players of the money-trade industry respected and patronized.

Its kitchen served hot and greasy breakfast from six-thirty to eleven in the morning and lunch from eleven to three. Once the markets closed, Marlow's separate lounge came to life—a perfect chaos of televised sports events, alcohol and hot wings.

I started working at Marlow's when I was only fourteen, doing just the breakfast and lunch shifts at the diner since I couldn't serve alcohol yet at the lounge. I did it early in the morning and on weekends during the schoolyear and almost all week during the summer. It was good money—the customers were usually cleaner, a little better dressed, and less inclined to grope, unlike other seedier diners. Since they mostly worked white-collared jobs, they paid good tips.

While I was ecstatic about leaving for Paris to become a pastry chef, I missed the diner during the six months I was gone. When I returned to the city, I showed up at Bobby's office straight from the airport, and asked for my old job back which he'd been happy to give me. The last year and a half since I came back have been hard. Without this job, I wouldn't have managed to pull through.

Which is why I was adamant to keep it. Keeping it meant I didn't physically assault customers, and that meant trying my mighty best not to smash the hot sauce bottle on this man's beautiful face.

Brandon Maxfield. What a bastard.

Macy poked her head into the lunch room earlier where I was taking a short break and reading a local tabloid, and told me that Mr. Maxfield was asking for me specifically. That confused me because everyone in Marlow's knew Martin and referred to him by his first name. He also never came on Saturday mornings. I was always out working my tables when he came in on his usual schedule which was why he never had to summon me before.

I tossed the core of the apple I'd been munching on, washed my hands, and headed out to the dining area. Scanning the room, I found Martin's usual spot, which was in a corner booth by the window, empty.

Macy must've made a mistake but she coudn't possibly miss the old man. He had a thick shock of silver hair and a large, booming voice that matched his laughter.

"Char, over there," Macy called out to me from the prep bar where she was sorting her orders. She cocked her head to the side in the direction of the back most corner booth on the complete opposite side of the diner from where Martin's usual spot would be.

My brows furrowed further at her wide eyes and nervous shrug.

Jeez. This couldn't be any odder.

Martin was such a flirty, adorable, old man and all the girls here loved him. Macy looked like she was skating rather clumsily around egg shells instead of walking on them.

As I made my way to the booth, Bruce Cooper, one of our regulars, stopped me with a smack on my butt as I walked past him.

I stopped, took a few steps back and smacked him on the head to which he only laughed.

"Damn, Little Lottie, what an arm you've got!" he exclaimed with another stream of short, snort-like chuckles. "You could be wielding a whip with that and teaching me to be a good boy."

I raised a brow. "Why would I waste my time doing that when I could be pitching for the Sox? Or whacking grabby guys like you with a police baton before throwing you into a cell in the station down the block?"

Bruce just smirked. "Typical of you, Lottie, to always aspire for something way above us, poor sods, here."

I beamed.

Bruce Cooper was a hedge fund manager, and there wasn't really a lot above him unless you counted the few geek billionaires and royalty.

"Now, now, Bruce, don't get ideas into my head," I told him playfully. "I might just marry one of you, poor sods, and turn myself into one of those real housewife celebrities."

The man's face actually turned a little green. "God, no. Don't you dare, Lottie."

"If it happens, we know it's your fault," I told him with a wink before continuing on my way to Martin, a spring in my step.

I haven't seen Martin in about a week actually but that wasn't always surprising. He was a pretty busy and important man and we always figured that he was away on business trips when he wouldn't show up for several days.

I looked forward to sitting with him this morning and letting him try the salted caramel éclair I left inside the restaurant cooler earlier. 

"Hey, Mart—" 

I stopped cold, my eyes narrowing at the man sitting in the booth, impatiently tapping his fingers on the laminate countertop. 

A face filed away in my memory a long time ago surged to the surface, and I barely stopped myself from sucking in a deep, surprised breath in front of him. 

I forced my heart to return to beating.

Well, who have we got here.

"You are not Mr. Maxfield," I blurted out, accusation in my voice. 

The man's thick, dark brow rose at my statement and I got the full effect of his arrogance before his mouth even opened.

"Excuse me?" he demanded.

Crossing my arms, I pursed my lips and studied him.

He had thick, dark brown hair that curled softly around his ears and the nape of his neck, a prominent, perfectly straight and narrow nose, a strong jaw, and a pair of dark hazel eyes that were currently flickering with disdain as he returned my inspection.

He was definitely an attractive man—the dark coloring of his hair and eyes were seductive while the condescending tilt of his full, wide mouth was a little maddening.

My memory of him and all the sources that built it didn't do the man much justice and did nothing to prepare me for this moment I've been half-dreaming, half-dreading for a while now.

Easy, Charlotte. You don't really know him all that well despite what you think.

I especially didn't know that he would be reeking of self-importance, with him looking like he knew he could be somewhere else doing something a lot more pleasant than sitting there and being scrutinized by a waitress at Marlow's.

"Macy said Mr. Maxfield specifically asked for me," I explained impatiently. "I'm looking at you and you're definitely not him."

A frown started between his brows and never left. "I am definitely Mr. Maxfield—Brandon Christopher Maxfield, to be precise."

Based on the tailoring and materials of his dark blue sports jacket and white shirt, he was definitely rich and showed it well—nothing less than I expected of him. But there was nothing about him at all that reminded me of Martin who had silver hair, happy blue eyes and a kind smile—maybe except for the stubborn chin which he tipped up at me rudely in indignation.

I have a suspicion that today will be the day I stop scribbling his name with flowers and hearts in my journal. Nothing like meeting the person in reality to ruin your dream version of him.

I mentally shook my dreamy, distracted thoughts of him away and focused on his hazel eyes which were gleaming with obvious distaste. 

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Ah, yes. The younger, more ambitious, less charming Mr. Maxfield. Nice to meet you."

Oh yes, I knew of Brandon Maxfield, alright. He was splattered all over the media since he was the heir apparent to Maxfield Industries and its current president. He was ruthless in business, well in demand at social functions, and easy on the eye to top it all off.

Since I was friends with Martin, I've heard enough about him—both good and bad—but he just always seemed like a character in a book that I've read over and over again and who always stayed confined to the pages.

Okay, so he was a little more than just a character—he was the prince who loved Charlotte, I mean, Cinderella—but these were fantasies I had when I was sixteen, when Martin started telling me about him and I started paying attention to everything about him that the media dished out.

In the last year or so, I haven't had the time or the heart to fantasize about my own fairy tales again. I've grown jaded enough to know that I probably never will.

He looked at the hand I extended, as if it were a snake about to spring forward and coil around his neck, before he briefly shook it.

"Sarcasm isn't the most polite of greetings, Ms. Samuels," he answered in a tone brittle with annoyance as he quickly released my hand. "You aren't so charming yourself."

I ignored the traces of heat his hand left on my palm and shrugged. "And you just made a hypocrite of yourself with that sarcastic comment. Now we're even."

Anger flared in his gold-flecked, brown-green eyes. "Not even close. Why don't you take a seat and we'll discuss business."

I shook my head. "I don't believe we have any business together, Mr. Maxfield. And I have work to do. Macy will come by and take your order when you're ready. Good day—"

I had just turned when his arm shot out and grabbed my elbow in an iron grip.

I glanced at it and narrowed my eyes at him. "I would let go if I were you. No one would blink an eye here if I break your nose for touching me."

His gaze darkened, his grip not loosening one bit. "I wouldn't threaten men who are twice your size if I were you, Ms. Samuels. Others here may let you get away with playing tease like old Bruce back there, but some of us have a little more self-respect than that. I'm certainly a lot more discerning where I get my kicks from. Even a well-oiled bike breaks down after so many men have ridden it."

Red flashed in my vision and before I knew it, I threw a punch.

My fist grazed his jaw before punching into air and before I could react, he was on his feet, grabbing me by the shoulders, propelling me into the booth, and settling himself in front of me so I was trapped between him and the table.

He was much larger and stronger than I thought, and he looked downright furious.

"Let go of me, you ass!" I yelled at him as I struggled to push him off the seat, but he was pure muscle under the shirt and jacket that he didn't budge an inch. "You're an arrogant, offensive cockhead and I'm not wasting my time on you."

"Stop swearing!" he hissed at me, aware that heads popped up at my raised voice. "I don't want to talk with you any more than you want to talk with me, but we're in a mess that you created and I want you to fix it."

That got my attention.

I stopped struggling and stared at him as if he sprouted a horn—make that two horns since he was probably the devil.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes, releasing me. "Oh, you very well know what I'm talking about, Ms. Samuels. Didn't you plan all of this out? Play my father right into your hands so he would do anything you asked, including blackmailing his own son so you can get what you want?"

I frowned. "I'll give you exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I scream murder. My friends down at the Dalhousie precinct aren't very fond of pervs and bullies like you."

Watching his jaw clench, a muscle ticking under his left eye, I realized just how angry Brandon Maxfield was. There was no humor for him in all of this, and he was barely restraining himself from reaching over and wringing my neck. As to why he was mad at me, I didn't know.

Be the adult, Charlotte. Attempt a civil conversation even if the man is a total ape.

"Let's try this again," I said in a calmer tone. "What are you here for? Tell me as if I'm hearing this for the first time because I bet I am. Please and thanks."

I was proud of my perfectly pleasant statement but it seemed to infuriate him further because he dragged in a deep, loud breath as if fighting for control.

"I'm here to propose marriage, Ms. Samuels," he said in a grave voice as if he just announced a death sentence—for whom, that I wasn't sure about.

I blinked a few times before I grinned and lost it, throwing my head back laughing.

"What exactly is so hilarious about the situation, Ms. Samuels?" he demanded.

Clutching my stomach, I shook my head as I tried to stem the flow of my laughter. I brushed a few tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and looked at him.

Well, the man looked serious—or had an excellent poker face.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought I just heard you say you were here to propose marriage to me. Who put you up to this? Martin? Where's that sly old man so I can give him his payback for this?"

"My father is in Amsterdam right now," he answered, still without any humor. "He left two days ago with a warning that if we're not engaged yet by the time he arrived in a week, he would put forward my cousin, Francis Pelletier, as the new CEO of Maxfield Industries when he retires later this year."