The Next Mrs Russo

Like having me arrested for trespassing.

I study the cut of his suit and remind myself that I did not create this situation and am not at fault here. Then I calculate the odds that he’d be interested in making out before he kicks me out.

They’re low. Still. We’ve got at least three minutes left.

“Where did my mother find you?”

“Across the street.” I tilt my head a bit to the side in what I think is the direction of my house. “I own a dress shop. She was shopping.”

He exhales. It’s the tiniest, nearly inaudible sigh. Like he’s practiced keeping them to himself for a decade or two. “What’s in this for you?”

I blink, focus. He’s too good a politician not to realize a deal was made. He’s asking what his mother offered in order to sell me on this scheme. “She offered to wear one of my dresses to a charity event.”

He nods, his eyes flickering over my face. I think I catch another sliver of a smirk but it’s gone so fast I’m not sure I didn’t hallucinate it. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Promptly.”

And then he walks out the door.

Chapter Four

Miller can’t stop laughing.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Mrs Bianchi is the governor’s mother?” I’m still not convinced he didn’t realize who she was, because I wouldn’t put it past him to allow me to just traipse out the door like an idiot while he made a TikTok video about it.

“I’m not even old enough to vote. You think I know who the governor’s mother is? I barely even know who the governor is.”

“It’s Warren Russo,” I reply drily. “Make a note of it in case there’s a pop quiz.”

“Noted,” he volleys back like a teenager without a care in the world.

Those were the days.

I groan and tap my forehead with my fingertips. I’m so uncomfortable with the idea of this fake date. Crush aside, he’s intimidating. And I’m… me. Yet I can’t deny the appeal of spending a little bit of time with him. Besides, think of all the things I could learn about him. All sorts of stuff that wouldn’t be available via an internet search. I already learned he smells good and that Duke likes a good belly rub. I might learn something really fascinating, like if he’s into hair-pulling during sex.

Mine, not his.

Hmm.

Okay, yeah, that’s unlikely to come up on a fake first date.

But just one little night of harmless fun wouldn’t hurt, right? Then I can blend back into obscurity, re-devote myself to staying out of trouble, and tuck a few delicious details about my crush away for a rainy day.

“This is a terrible idea, right?” I just need to hear myself say it out loud. If I acknowledge it’s a terrible idea, then at the very least I can give myself credit when it all goes awry. It’s kinda genius, actually. I call it the bad idea win-win.

“Why, because he’s old?” Miller is already bored with this topic and is back to seam-ripping the coat he started in on yesterday.

“He’s forty!” Forty, and hot as hell. The bossy-man-in-charge thing really hits all my hot buttons, but I keep that inappropriate commentary to myself. I really need a friend in Albany in order to discuss the governor’s bangability. One who is not a teenager or the governor’s mother.

“My dad is forty. He’s old.”

“Have I fired you yet today?”

“Yeah, an hour ago.”

I sigh. Loudly.

“The mating habits of adults are so strange,” Miller gripes. “You were just complaining about not having a date and now you’re complaining about having one.”

“I never complained about any such thing! You were the one referring to me as a spinster and carrying on about setting me up. Not me.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” Miller shrugs. “Well, it sounds like I got what I wanted, at least.”

I glare. And add a loud huff.

“It’s one date. Get over yourself.”

Ahh, teenagers. I wonder how parents survive these years with their self-confidence intact.

“So, let’s get to the real question. What are you going to wear and do you have the appropriate shoes?”

Ugh, this kid.

Still, he does have impeccable style.

“It’s an evening reception at Hudson Opera House,” I tell Miller. Mrs Bianchi filled me in on that, thankfully. Family wedding, a cousin, I think she said. Apparently Warren didn’t even RSVP, which is what set off this chain of events. Per Mrs Bianchi, she RSVP’d for him and then lectured him on social etiquette.

Mrs Bianchi is a wealth of information. Mostly useless, but totally charming. I did manage to confirm that Mrs Bianchi is married to Artie though. Artie Bianchi, Warren’s campaign manager. Warren’s father passed away a decade or more ago, which I already knew from my totally normal amount of stalking.

“Have you been there? To the Opera House?”

“Like three times for boring grade-school field trips. Never on a date though.”