The Next Mrs Russo

“So.”

Yup. That’s what I lead with. Just the one word. Not a complete sentence. Not even a fun, useful phrase like, “Good evening,” or “By the way, you look incredibly hot in that suit.”

I might as well just have grunted but before I get the chance it occurs to me that we’re alone.

“You drive yourself around?” I ask, while turning to peer into the back seat of his car as if there might be a guy back there keeping us company. To be fair, it’s a reasonable assumption. Does the governor have security? Who knows! I assumed he had a guy.

Warren side-eyes me a moment before answering. I’m not offended by the side-eye because he’s driving. And also because I’ve done nothing but babble awkward partial sentences since he showed up at my door.

“I didn’t know if you were allowed to drive yourself, is all,” I interject before he even has a chance to speak. “I was wondering, actually.”

Cool, Audrey. Cool. Why don’t you just admit that you Googled this very question but never found a satisfactory search result? Somehow I manage to keep my mouth shut and let him answer.

“For personal events, I usually drive myself.”

“Cool.”

Then I physically sink my teeth into my bottom lip in an attempt to keep my stupid mouth shut because I sound like an idiot with high school-level conversational abilities.

Except.

Except this doesn’t even matter! This isn’t a real date, I remind myself. There is no pressure. Absolutely none. This is nothing more than a chance to spend a few hours with my crush. Like if I’d won some weird sweepstakes to have lunch with a Hollywood A-lister on the set of their latest movie. Have you ever seen one of those contests? Like, buy a raffle ticket for the chance to win a dinner with Dolly Parton! Or donate a bunch of money and win a Zoom call with Ryan Reynolds! I always imagined that the winner ended up getting something like five minutes with the celebrity while a small army of agents and assistants hovered nearby.

This is so much better.

And sure, it’s a weird crush. A more predictable crush would be on an actor or an athlete or a musician selling out stadiums worldwide, but we love who we love.

This is my chance to spend a few hours with him, zero pressure. Alone, at least until we reach the reception. Who gets an opportunity like this? No one. Hudson Opera House is a forty-five-minute drive from Albany if you’re driving the speed limit and surely the governor obeys the speed limit, am I right? Or something close to it. The optics of him getting pulled over for speeding by a state trooper would be bad.

A quick peek at the speedometer confirms it. He’s going maybe eight miles over the limit, exactly as I’d expected. So I’ve got at least thirty minutes left until we reach the reception venue to ask all of those super-scintillating questions I’ve always wanted to know.

Nothing for me to do but stare at him, smell him and ask him questions.

Sure, the smelling thing might be high on the creepy scale but it’s not like I’m going to lean over and sniff him. It’s just like a side benefit. His cologne is delicious, sue me.

Anyway. This is my chance. Surely I have questions I could ask him.

I’m drawing a blank but there’s gotta be something. Like…

“Do you post yourself on Instagram?” I blurt the question out of nowhere, excited to ask it. I’ve always wanted to know. Does he sit behind his desk scrolling through his phone looking for a photo to post and something witty to say?

Seems unlikely.

But does he take the photos himself and email them to a public relations person? Or is someone else doing all of it? These questions plague me. A lot of the photos are fairly generic, like from public events, so clearly someone else takes those. But there’s a bunch of photos of Duke on there too so surely he takes those?

“Instagram.” He repeats the word back to me as if it’s foreign. Or maybe he’s just caught off guard with my random outbursts of scintillating conversation. He glances at me briefly. He can side-eye me forever if he wants. I’m into it.

“Do you even know that you have an Instagram?” I press. Hmm, this is kind of disappointing.

“I’m aware I have an Instagram, yes.”

“It wasn’t a trick question,” I clarify. Just in case he’s confused about why I’m asking. “I’ve just always wondered. Like a curious kitten.” Sure. That’s better.

“Right.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road this time, not even for a side-eye glance. “Do you like getting updates about the state via social media apps?”

State updates. Sure, that’s what I’m following him for. Also, he just asked that like he was data-collecting the habits of the average voter and is completely clueless that anyone would look because he’s sexy. I sorta hum in what I hope is a noncommittal reply while I think of something else to ask him. Why is this so hard? I have so many questions! This is my big chance to ask them and I’m choking. If I knew any bad baseball analogies, I’d mentally think them right now.