The Next Mrs Russo

“What do you think?”

Miller is already nodding his approval. “You need a nude heel. Three to four inches. Open-toe with an ankle strap. Do you have something?”

“Err, not really. The nude heels I have are closed-toe and looked ridiculous with this.” I examine myself in the store mirror, standing on my tiptoes as if wearing imaginary heels to get the full effect. “I have a day and a budget of, like, forty bucks. If I can’t find something at TJ Maxx tonight, I’m screwed.”

“What size shoe do you wear?”

“An eight. Why, do you know a guy?” I joke.

“My girlfriend wears an eight and a half and her homecoming shoes would be perfect for this dress. She’ll let you borrow them if I ask, I’m texting her right now.” His thumbs are already flying at teenage speed tapping out a text.

Wait. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Did you think I was gay because I’m into fashion or because I have two dads? God, you’re old.”

“No!” I start to object out of instinct, then I pause. “Yeah, I guess. It was the fashion,” I add. “Not the two dads.”

“My girlfriend,” Miller emphasizes the word, “texted back ‘OFC.’ That’s ‘of course,’ in teen acronym. I’ll drop them off tomorrow.”

“Okay, well, thank you. That’s very nice of you. And her.”

“Do you have the right earrings for this or do I need to source that for you too? You could do a simple drop earring in a gold. Or something sparkly, but nothing gaudy, please.”

“I’m okay on earrings. I have a few pairs that could work.” I’m silent a moment, but this is going to nag at me. “So where did you learn to sew then?” I ask as I change back out of the dress. “The two dads?”

“That is so gayist, Audrey.”

“Sorry!”

“My grandma. She used to babysit me when I was little and she’d make me these amazing superhero costumes. Whatever I asked for, she could do. But then I realized I enjoyed watching her make something out of nothing more than I cared about the superheroes.”

“Aww.”

“Neither of my dads can sew, for the record. One is a physical therapist and the other is a realtor.”

“Okay, sorry. I’m a presumptous idiot.”

Miller shrugs. “Whatever. Educating the uneducated is my cross to bear.”

“You do it so well though.”

Miller rolls his eyes. “Wear your hair in a low, loose pony, so the gov can imagine pulling it while he tries to resist you,” he informs me when I exit the fitting room again, hanging the dress on a hook behind the counter.

“OMG, Miller!” I chastise, using his teen vernacular.

Still though. Not terrible advice. Kids these days, am I right?

Chapter Five

By Saturday morning I’m very nearly questioning whether I’ve made this entire thing up. Did the mother of the governor of New York really drag me into the governor’s mansion and introduce me to Warren Russo as his date for tonight? Did that really happen or have I lost my mind? Or maybe I died last week and this entire thing is like that old M. Night Shyamalan movie? I’m dead, so all my fantasies are coming to life in very peculiar fashion.

You never know.

But all of that seems improbable because Mrs Bianchi stopped in when I opened the store. Presumably under the guise of buying another dress. Honestly, I think she was just checking to make sure I wasn’t going to bail and thought buying another dress would bribe me into submission.

Joke’s on her though because no bribe would be necessary to make me want to spend time with Warren, as unsuitable a match as it is. She even had the audacity to tell me he was looking forward to it, without so much as a flinch as she told that bald-faced lie.

She really is a meddler. Yet she manages to do it in such a charming and endearing fashion one can’t help but laugh. At least I can’t. I imagine her own children are less amused by her shenanigans.

“Mrs Bianchi.” I cut her off the moment she said it, one hand on my hip and the sternest expression I could manage. “He absolutely, positively said no such thing and we both know it.”

“Hmm,” she hummed in reply, staring me down in return. Then she gave a defiant little shrug. “He thought it though. I know my son. And I have the Very Good—”

“Feeling,” I finished for her. “I know.”

So here I am, in my reworked designer dress, wearing borrowed heels and feeling like Cinderella without a helpful mouse in sight to keep me company while I watch the clock tick down to seven.

I double-checked. For mice, that is. The last thing I need is Gary pulling another stunt like he did earlier this week, but in front of Warren Russo. I would positively die of embarrassment. The rogue mouse has already been given a lovely retirement. By which I mean I left him in a flower patch over at Lincoln Park. Alive and well. I wished him luck in never finding his way back to me and included a little pep talk about his potential. I also left him with half an apple to tide him over till he figured out his new neighborhood because I’m not heartless.