The Next Mrs Russo

Point being, the bottom’s a lost cause, but the rest of it is good fabric and I know I can transform it. Into something perfect, and just for me.

It’s not the kind of job I’d normally try to fit into a day—or, more precisely, less than a day—but I’m still feeling jittery and, fine, a little horny, so I figure I need to channel my energy into something. And honestly, I feel like Coco would appreciate my predicament.

Miller doesn’t approve of the straps. He says they look dated, and will make me look old, and once I’ve heard him say that I decide he’s right. So they’ve got to go too. Not that I’m going to say it out loud. As if Miller needs an ounce of encouragement. Besides, everyone knows that giving a teenager a compliment only gives them ammo to throw in your face when you least expect it.

“You should plunge the neckline too,” he says.

“I don’t need your help,” I grumble.

He laughs. “Oh, you definitely do.”

In the end, though, I do plunge the neckline. I nip and tuck more than a Hollywood plastic surgeon, giving the dress a very fitted look that’s flattering on my figure. Really flattering, and I’m not one to give compliments to myself freely. In fact, one look in the mirror tells me that this is one of my best creations to date.

Proof that, sometimes, not thinking too much is the best course of action. That, and sometimes waiting until the last minute pays off.

Which is another thing you should never admit to a teenager.

Anyway, not thinking probably isn’t the best mindset to take going into tonight’s date, or favor, or whatever this is. Or maybe it’s exactly the right mindset?

Better than thinking about Warren naked, for example.

Dang it. Now I’m obviously thinking about Warren naked. That freaking grey t-shirt. I love a good worn t-shirt on a man. The kind that you know would feel really, really soft as you were lying on top of him or tugging it off of him.

Okay. Enough thinking.

I throw my hair up in one of those updos that looks effortless but requires a small army of bobby pins. I go a little heavier with the eyeliner to achieve that mysterious vibe that perfect liner gives to other women but usually looks completely uneven and, well, tragic on me. Tonight though, it actually looks… dare I say it, good?

It’s the power of Chanel, I think. Chanel makes everything better.

Okay, fine. Miller helped me with the eyeliner.

I manage to get rid of him before Warren shows up, thank God. I don’t need him witnessing another moment between us and agreeing to anything else on my behalf. Like… well, who even knows. Miller is a creative menace. Even though, technically, I guess I have him to thank for tonight. Except I’m still not clear if tonight is something worth thanking anyone about.

I mean, sure, I love a good meal. But it’s with one of the most boring people on the planet.

Not Warren. He’s extremely interesting. To me, anyway. Interesting and sexy. Really sexy.

But tonight we’re having dinner with Malcolm Lowell, a geriatric donor who has more money than God and appears to spend it on poodles. Literally. Poodles. The tall, fluffy kind. And look, I like dogs as much as the next girl, but I’m more of a shepherd-husky kind of dog.

Yes, the kind that Duke is. But that’s not the point.

Malcolm Lowell owns thirteen poodles. Thirteen. Even in what I am sure is a giant mansion, it seems like a lot. He’s also super into old film, which is slightly cooler. Recently he acquired a few of Marilyn Monroe’s outfits, from some kind of rich-person auction, which is insanely cool. Fashion-wise, I mean. After all, it’s a rule that if you’re into fashion—especially old fashion like I am—you’re also into Marilyn. I don’t write the rules.

Am I a stalker for looking this stuff up? No. I’m just a really good fake date. I’m also just a girl who’s trying not to check the time obsessively like she did last time. I’m staying occupied. I’m staying informed. I’m not thinking about Warren and what he was doing in my dreams, especially that little move with his hand near my thigh and—

The knock on my door almost makes me jump out of my chair and rip the Chanel redo, but I recover at the last second. I grab my clutch, cross the room and fling open the door, and there’s Warren in another cruelly perfect black suit.

“Oh,” I say intelligently, unable to keep my eyes from sweeping him up and down. Unable to keep them from lingering somewhere.

Damn my dream.

“Good evening, Audrey,” Warren says, that lip of his quirked up in a dangerous smile. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” I say. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”