NOTES: Well, thank you for being patient with me while I wrote this unexpected second chapter! The ending isn't my favorite, but I do enjoy the first three-forths of it quite a bit, and I hope all of you do, too. As always, I appreciate the feedback. But most importantly, I hope you enjoy this!

Effectively Drowning

Andrew was asleep in her bed. Sleeping. In her bed. Margaret stood in the doorway to her bedroom with a glass of water in her hand and tried not to hyperventilate. His lean, beautiful body was sprawled out across her sheets, his arm tossed out as if he'd reached for her while he was dreaming, and she was absolutely frozen to the spot. Because Andrew Paxton was sleeping in her bed.

He looked so out of place there, in her tidy, feminine room. But he slept as if it didn't concern him that he was the only masculine thing in the entire place. She set the water down on the nightstand very carefully and tried to decide if she was going to climb back into bed with him. She was afraid she'd wake him up, afraid that she'd get in bed and realize that he really wasn't there, reaching for her. In the middle of the night, it was so easy to think about the obstacles. It was easy to remember that he was younger than her, that they were coworkers. That…well, there were other reasons, she was sure. Even if she was too tired to think of them.

"Andrew is in my bed," she said out loud, quietly, testing the words.

"He is," came a very male, very sleepy voice, and she jumped nearly to the roof. "And he's cold. So maybe, Margaret, you'd like to join him?"

"You're awake," she accused, as if he'd done it on purpose to make her upset. He rolled onto his back and looked up at her, his lips curling slightly at one corner.

"In a manner of speaking," he agreed. He held out an arm for her, surprising her as he always did with his easy acceptance of physical affection. "You coming?"

She climbed into bed, settling against his side.

"Better," he sighed, and he was asleep again within five minutes. How did boys do that? Margaret was envious. She couldn't sleep. Every time she did, she found herself thinking about all the ways things could go wrong. She had some ridiculous fears, like the reoccurring suspicion that she was going to get deported in spite of her legitimate engagement. Some of them were better-founded, like the one where Andrew would leave her because she was so emotionally stunted. But so far he seemed to enjoy her emotional stunted-ness. In fact, it amused him.

She was wondering if he was laughing with her or laughing at her when he was being amused, and in the midst of wondering she fell asleep, curled next to him, unable to resist in spite of nearly sixteen years of practice.

* * *

"What are you burning in my kitchen?" she asked as she stumbled out of the bedroom the next morning. He let the comment pass without remark. He was confident, apparently, in his abilities as a chef. So he continued scrambling the eggs he was making them for breakfast.

"There's coffee," he told her, and she pounced on it. He laughed, and his hair was a mess, and for a moment Margaret seriously contemplated pouncing on him, but she was still a little shy in that department.

"It's not Christmas in a cup," she muttered, "but it will do."

"No way. You're gonna have to get a new pathetic assistant. I'm going back to regular iced coffee," he told her, watching her wrinkle her nose at the thought of anyone drinking iced coffee. She was too busy gulping down the caffeine, however, to toss back a witty rejoinder. He was spirited this morning, which she knew was unusual. Andrew had always come to work clean and pressed and ready to go, and yet Margaret had long been aware of the fact that he was not what one might be tempted to call a morning person.

"You're in a good mood."

"I woke up next to a beautiful woman." He placed a plate of eggs in front of her. "That tends to put a guy in a good mood."

Margaret lifted her eyebrow and glanced down. Andrew smirked at her as she peeked, unashamed.

"I knew you looked," he said after a second, turning back to the pan to make his own eggs.

"Just for a second," she muttered into her cup, flushing. Why did he always drag that up? And in the morning? But it seemed to make him happy enough. He was grinning to himself as he scrambled a second batch of eggs.

"So, what are the plans for the day?" he asked her. Margaret shrugged.

"Work?" she suggested, almost hopefully, and Andrew stared at her, his expression almost completely blank.

"Work? That's your idea of a good time on your day off?"

"Andrew," she said, finally setting her mug down. "Before you and I got engaged, I didn't take days off."

"I noticed. I didn't either. Thank God we got engaged. I was getting burnt out."

Margaret looked for something to throw at him, but before she found anything, he was sliding into the chair across from her with his breakfast. He dug in with gusto, and she wondered when they had traded places, and he was the one all gung-ho early in the morning.

"I had a thought," he said, eyeing her carefully as he ate. Margaret motioned that he should continue, her mind already on the manuscripts sitting on her desk from the evening before. Andrew set his fork down and stared at her, sensing her full attention wasn't on him. But he spoke anyway.

He said, calmly, "I think we should get married today."

And Margaret choked on her fresh sip of coffee.

* * *

"Why today?" she asked once they were dressed and showered. Andrew was shaving -- shaving, in her bathroom. She wasn't sure she was ever going to get used to that. He looked at her in the mirror, then rinsed his face off and dried it. He turned toward her, his expression unfathomable, but she could tell that he was slightly hurt by her reaction.

"Why not today? I'm just talking about the civil ceremony and the papers. We can have the real ceremony whenever you'd like, but I'm sure my mom's hoping for Christmas in Sitka."

Margaret realized that Andrew had been hoping for the same thing. And she didn't necessarily have a problem with that, but…

"So why not wait until December?"

"This way we know for sure they can't send you back to Canada. And anyway." He turned away from her, cleaning his razor and very carefully placing it in the medicine cabinet. "I thought it sounded…kinda…"

"Romantic?" she suggested, and he shrugged. "Andrew, it is romantic."

"It's fine, Margaret. We don't have to do it today," he told her, and that effectively ended the conversation. He moved around her and disappeared into the living room. Margaret watched him go and knew somehow that she'd failed a test of some sort.

So she called the courthouse. And her lawyer. And a couple of people in Andrew's cell phone. And she came to him when everything was arranged. Sitting, she took his hand and said, "We're doing it. At three."

He glanced at her, surprised. "You didn't sound like you wanted to," he said, almost petulant.

"I want to," she told him, firm. "We have witnesses, too, to make it all official."

He nodded, and looked relieved. And then, as she was about to get up and check her email, he grabbed her and crushed her to his chest. And Margaret, unused to such gestures, couldn't do anything but hold him back. She felt a frog in her throat and realized, really realized, how much he loved her. It still seemed improbable, after their history. But he really, truly wanted to be her husband.

* * *

Margaret stood in the shower and stared down at the simple ring on her finger. Andrew had promised her a proper one when they had their ceremony -- and privately she agreed with him about Sitka at Christmas -- but for now this was her wedding band. It gleamed and flashed in the water, and she hadn't realized she'd been standing there for long enough to attract attention until Andrew knocked quietly.

"Do you want me to stay again tonight?" he asked. "Or are you too busy drowning yourself with the showerhead?"

"Yes," she said.

"Oh. The tub would probably be easier," he told her, and she rolled her eyes.

"I meant yes, stay, Andrew."

There was a pause. "I knew that."

"Yes, I'm sure you did."

He retreated and Margaret climbed out of the water, patting herself dry for the second time that day. New York was hot, even as fall began to envelope the city. She was glad to be clean again, and she pulled on comfortable clothing before she joined her husband -- her husband -- in the living room. She sat next to him, and his arm found its way around her shoulders, and she thought, I'm married.

"You okay?"

"Yes," she said, and turned to smile at him. "Hubby."

He laughed, startled by the endearment. "Good," he said, and after a second added, "Wifey."

She shuddered at the term and he laughed again, more certain this time. She settled herself more comfortably against him, still adjusting to the fact that she could touch him this way, whenever she wanted. She was also still adjusting to his unabashedness about changing in front of her. He had no shame, he'd even do it in the living room, and she really was trying to get past the alien feel of it to enjoy the show, because he was beautiful. Just this morning he had caught her looking at him.

He'd paused, still naked and halfway through the process of pulling a shirt on. He'd stared at her as she looked at him, and her cheeks glowed brighter.

"I want you to look, Margaret," he said with low intensity. She felt his words way down in her toes, and she squirmed a little in embarrassment. "I'm your fiancé."

"Yes," she'd agreed, distracted by the miles of his golden skin, and the flawless muscle tone of his chest and abdomen, and though she'd never gone for the younger guys before Andrew, she had to admit she was beginning to understand cougars a little better. He was beautiful, and fit, and the way he looked at her made her feel like she was in high school again, before her parents' accident, wanting nothing more than to make out in the back seat of a car.

Things like that took some getting used to. But she could, she felt up to the task. And he was coming around to it much easier than she was. He squeezed her shoulders as if to prove it. He leaned over and brushed a kiss over her lips, as if sensing her uncertainty.

"I love you," he said, a simple declaration.

"I…Love you too," she said, and his smile broke on her like the sun through the morning mist. It took her a second to realize it was the first time she'd said to him. He kissed her again, and she sat next to him, stupefied again. But she really did love him. She just hoped he wouldn't think she was slow, the way he kept knocking her senseless with such small things.

"Margaret Paxton," he said, and Margaret glanced at him. Then a slow smile spread over her lips.

"Margaret Paxton," she repeated, rather liking the way it sounded, if she was honest.

"Andrew Tate?" He lifted a brow. She smacked him with a pillow.

"Margaret Paxton," she insisted, and he laughed and gathered her into his lap to give her a proper squeeze.

"I love you, Margaret Paxton," he said, kissing her nose. And Margaret, this time not having to try and relax, wrapped her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers into his hair.

"I love you, Andrew Paxton." It was becoming natural to say it, and that made her happy because it made him happy. Then she pinched his shoulder. "I did see you. All of you."

Andrew laughed and pinched her bottom. "I know," he replied, and winked. "Let's go to bed, Mrs. Paxton."

She let him lead her to the bedroom, her hand tucked into his. As he drew her close to kiss her again, she peeked at the bed, a wicked smile on her lips.

"What?" he asked, distracted by the curve of her neck and shoulder. She tilted her head and let out a low laugh as his lips moved over the skin there.

"I was just thinking maybe we should have Gammy send us that blanket."

Andrew pulled back to look at her, shocked, and she took advantage of his slack jaw to kiss him. After a moment, he got over the initial shock and returned the kiss with enthusiasm. But after another moment, he pulled back again.

"I could, you know," he said.

"Could what?" She was distracted now, this time by his shirt.

"Have her send the blanket." He grinned at her and she smacked his chest.

"Not if you ever actually want to make babies," she said, and laughing, he took her to bed.

* * *

"She's tiny," Andrew said, watching his daughter curl her little fist around his pinky. Margaret leaned back, exhausted by the ordeal of giving birth.

"They usually are," she said, and he leaned over to kiss her. Then a devilish smile crossed his lips.

"We didn't even need the blanket," he told her, sounding smug, and Margaret groaned, her head flopping back against her pillow.

"Just lemme hold my daughter," she said, holding out her arms for their little girl. Andrew passed the baby over, sitting even closer to his girls on the narrow hospital bed. Then he produced a small box.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it with a hand, careful not to disturb their newborn.

"Well. It is our nine-month anniversary. There are a couple more for the baby with mom and dad and Gammy, but they can wait in the waiting room until you're feeling a little stronger."

"It's not our anniversary for another two weeks," she reminded him archly, and he laughed and shrugged.

"Close enough," he said, and wrapped his arms around them both. Margaret closed her eyes, glad the birthing was over, glad that Andrew was there with his arms around her. She opened them after a minute and said,

"Love you, daddy."

And he gave her the most brilliant smile she'd ever seen. He replied, "Love you too, mommy."

Mommy. Margaret looked down at her daughter and thought, Yes, I can get used to that. And she promptly fell asleep, safe and surrounded by her little family.