Free The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield by Ninya Tippett Page A

and a calendar for the wedding-related appointments. My brain was near-overloading at that point but she didn't slow down.
    My brand new wardrobe arrived on the dot and whatever sparse furniture I had in my living room disappeared along with a considerable amount of floor space as clothes, shoes and accessories—several tons of them—were brought in. Armina, the personal shopper Felicity picked out for me, was spot-on with picking out my size and mixing items that flattered me the most. I protested in earnest at first but when she started putting things together, I reluctantly admitted that her choices were simple and elegant with a punch of bold colors and a young, playful flair. The three of us giggled like school girls at every outfit I modeled in front of the full-length mirror they'd also brought in.
    Once the wardrobe was done and sorted into wheeled clothing racks stored in the spare bedroom, style team came in.
    They were a mini-army of beauty militants led by Clyde who forced me down on a chair, slapped my eyes shut with a cooling gel pad that effectively disabled me from watching the transformation they were so adamant on putting me through.
    After hours of hair and skin treatments, a cut and style, and some more primping from doing my nails to a very thorough leg-waxing (I drew the line at Clyde's insistence of the Brazilian), I felt brand new and very alien at first.
    When small lumps of dark, honey-blonde hair strewn all over the floor greeted me after they took off my eye mask, I gasped out a small sob before I caught sight of myself in the mirror. As attached as I was to my hair, I couldn't deny that it looked so much better with less weight and volume—one of the many decisions I was relieved and grateful to have been left to the experts because I wasn't disappointed at all.
    I wasn't a glamorous beauty—in fact, I was probably just average-looking—but I had the gift of clear, healthy skin, rare, dark blue-green eyes and a proportionate figure. I knew that with a little tweaking I could look better but I barely had the time or money to even give my hair a trim in the last year.
    Brandon was used to beautiful women, if the things I've read about him were to be believed, and I supposed he didn't want to drag around a shabby wife to add to his suffering of having one forced on him in the first place. A mischievous side of me wanted to get back at him by becoming the exact opposite of his ideal wife but I decided against it. For one, I didn't want to become a pariah myself by dressing up like a homeless person when there were clothes to wear (that's just insulting to those who really couldn't afford any) and I also didn't want to embarrass Martin who must've had a darn good reason for matchmaking me with his son.
    God, I'm going to see Martin tomorrow. He's going to know we're completely lying to him.
    I had relented and traded my shift tomorrow at Marlow's so I could attend the brunch with Brandon and his father. I wanted to see the old man but I was terrified that he would see right through me while I sat there at the breakfast table, tortured by guilt and remorse for participating in this deception Brandon concocted. 
    I need to figure out why Martin wanted me to marry Brandon in the first place. If I could at least help him with that, I'd feel better.
    I chanted that in my head every time I thought about tomorrow but after the day I've had, I was exhausted. I could barely form complete sentences in my head.
    Stalking to the fridge that was newly restocked by a pair of guys from one of those fancy groceries who came over earlier at Felicity's instructions, I took out a plastic container of cut-up fruits and transferred some to a small bowl.
    I was just snacking on it when the doorbell rang.
    "Who is it this time?" I grumbled as I contemplated the amount of energy I'd use to get up from the table and answer the door. "A sleep-pattern analyst?"
    The doorbell sounded off again and I groaned, pushing myself