The Next Mrs Russo

Miller is blissfully silent, likely hoping I’ll forget he’s here so I don’t kick him out before he can witness whatever is about to happen.

Which is… what?

The thing is, I have no chill when it comes to Warren Russo. To be fair, I don’t have a lot of chill with men in general. I’ve never been a girl who knows how to react or what to say or how to flirt without feeling like an idiot.

Which is why once Mrs Nelson has left I simply fidget awkwardly behind my worktable, arranging a pincushion and aligning a pair of scissors to the table’s edge.

Meanwhile Warren is slowly walking around my living room-turned-storefront as if he’s doing some kind of visual examination of the space, hands in his pockets, body language relaxed, his manner unhurried. He’s in a navy suit today. Light blue tie. His shirt is nearly white, but upon closer examination I determine it to be very light blue check. He looks perfectly pressed, as if it’s the beginning of the day, but a quick glance at the clock tells me it’s past five.

“Why are you here?” I finally blurt out the question with, you guessed it, zero chill. In my head it was going to come out like friendly banter, along the lines of ‘Hello, how are you?’ In actuality it came out as if the mouse I left in a park six blocks away just scampered though the door and flipped me off.

“Holy shit, you really are tragic,” Miller murmurs, but loudly enough for me to hear. Before I can so much as shoot a glare in his direction he adds, “Don’t bother firing me, there’s no way I’m missing any of this.”

“I came by to ask for a favor.” Warren stops his perusal of my store and comes to a stop in front of me, the worktable between us.

“Of course you did,” I agree, nodding in quick jerky movements like an awkward bobble head. Of course. He’s here for a favor. Not to flirt.

“Of course?” He raises a brow as if this foregone conclusion amuses him in some way.

“Obviously. Why else would you be here? Yes. I will vote for you in the next election, whenever that is. Miller might even be old enough to vote by then,” I add, pointing my thumb in the general direction of Miller. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Re-election is eighteen months away, but I deeply appreciate your early support.”

“You’re welcome.” I exhale, finally starting to relax.

“I need a date.”

“What? With me? Why?” Yup, no longer relaxed. I think I even managed to reply in a tone that implied horror, confirmed by Miller, who doesn’t even attempt to lower his voice when he shakes his head and declares me a disaster.

“You’ve met my mother,” Warren answers, seemingly undisturbed by my response. “She doesn’t give up easily.”

“Right,” I agree, because that goes without saying. “I already told her you weren’t that into me so you should be off the hook. Plus she already paid for the dress, so…” I shrug, as if this clears everything up. Because it does.

“Right.” He pauses for a moment before adding a second, “Right,” then shakes his head before continuing. “However, she’s now attempting to set me up with someone else for a thing this weekend and…” He trails off as if I should fill in the blank.

I would, but I’m too busy mentally side-eyeing Mrs Bianchi for that Very Good Feeling she had about me all of a week ago.

Warren waves his hand, two fingers in a circular ‘get on with it’ request that I should connect the dots.

“You’d prefer me?” I remember now that I never got around to practicing my serene facial expression so I’m well aware that my expression must be dubious at best. “Why?” I cross my arms across my chest and rest my weight on one hip. Then I wait.

Warren takes a moment to consider the question. I’m not sure if he wasn’t prepared to be asked or if he simply hadn’t given it any thought until now. He stares at me for a long moment. I think I detect a slight twitch of his lips as if he’s fighting a smirk.

“You were tolerable.”

Be. Still. My. Heart.

Tolerable.

Still, he’s not entirely wrong. I’ve always considered being tolerable one of my best traits. It’s a very underappreciated quality in a person, if you ask me, so I shrug one shoulder as if to concede this point.

To my left, there’s a snort. I tear my eyes off of Warren to make sure Miller isn’t filming this so he can upload to some app or another. He’s tapping furiously on his phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask, but it’s clearly an accusation not a question.

“Taking notes,” Miller replies without an ounce of shame. “For the book I’m going to write about the dating habits of grown-ass adults. I’m going to market it as a parody for teenagers. Unless I could spin it as a self-help guide for teenagers dealing with single parents?” He bounces his knee a couple times while he thinks that over. “Like a guide for how to communicate with the hopeless?”