The Next Mrs Russo

“Is this really that torturous?”

Yes. No. Never. “Well…” I pause, stalling, because lying is hard. “I could be doing very important things, you know.”

“Yes, Miller mentioned your early bedtime.”

“What?” I whip my head around as if I might spot that little deviant lurking, even though I know he isn’t here. “When did he—”

“The other day,” Warren says. “Anyway, shall we?”

I might not be able to fire Miller, but I’m going to have to come up with some teenage-appropriate revenge. He might torpedo this relationship before it ever gets off the ground. Not that it’s a real relationship. It’s a business deal. Because, I am, as Warren said…

Tolerable.

Meanwhile, the words that I’m thinking of right now to describe Warren?

Scrumptious. Yummy. Delectable.

Or maybe I just really want cake.

“I’ve decided something,” I say. “About my assistance tonight.”

He arches an eyebrow as we get into the car.

“I will require cake,” I say. “Or some kind of dessert that is not, under any circumstance, fruit.”

He laughs. “We’ll see. Depending on your performance.”

My performance, huh? That’s sexual, isn’t it? Promising? Because as much as I want dessert…

“Oh, I can perform well,” I say. “Trust me.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Yes, I think. We definitely will.

* * *

Holy. Crap.

This dinner is worse than I could’ve imagined, which is saying something considering my rampant, rampant imagination.

Old Man Lowell’s wife had to cancel at the last second, leaving us in an awkward conversational trio. But it’s mostly that these two continue to find the most boring topics of conversation humanly possible. It’s actually remarkable. When I watch Warren in a press conference, everything he says is sexy as hell, even when it shouldn’t be. Things like “job stability” and “examining the budget” get me all kinds of hot and bothered.

I know, I know. It’s weird. But on television it always seems like Warren is smirking directly at me as he offers to examine my budget.

Now? It’s not that Warren doesn’t look ridiculously fine. It’s not as if he’s not wearing the hell out of that suit or that he’s not even sexier in person than he is on television. Believe me, the conversation has allowed me to focus on things like the golden flecks in his eyes. I’ve been able to spend time imagining exactly how muscular his shoulders are based on his neck. I’ve calculated his shaving time to a little before six this morning based on the slight stubble appearing on his sharp jawline, though that’s just an estimate. It does make me wonder what kind of hair he’s working with when he’s shirtless. But that veers into dirty territory, so I go back to looking at his eyes.

It’s just… these two need to be saved. From themselves.

“It’s a fascinating vision, to be sure,” says Old Man Lowell. I think “interesting” is a generous adjective since Warren just spent the last twenty minutes talking about infrastructure, and even a charming sports metaphor or two wouldn’t have been enough to upgrade it to fascinating.

That’s it. I never thought I’d think these words, but it’s time to talk poodles.

“Mr. Lowell,” I say, turning to him. “Can I get your advice on something? Nothing weird, I promise.”

He blinks, clearly taken off-guard. I see a raised eyebrow from Warren and ignore it. Someone’s got to save this dismal evening, and that someone is me. Either that, or I’ll burn it to the ground.

I mean, free plumbing help is only worth so much faking, am I right?

“Of course, my dear,” Mr Lowell replies. “How can I help? It appears you’ve already locked down the elusive governor.”

There’s a bona fide twinkle in his old eyes as he glances in Warren’s direction, clearly thrilled Warren’s settled down. This isn’t an assumption on my part. I know it because he’s mentioned it at least four or five times tonight. I play along, mostly—if I’m being honest—because it’s really entertaining for me.

Warren gives him nothing response-wise. Total deadpan response every time.

“No, not about Warren,” I eagerly agree. “Because clearly I’ve already got him all figured out.” I reach over and cover Warren’s hand with my own in a dramatic gesture while batting my eyelashes at him to the best of my ability. The smirk he sends me in return has me sliding my hand back, clearing my throat. What the hell was I even talking about?

I blink at Mr. Lowell for a moment, trying to regain my focus. Right, right, I was about to charm him via poodle.

“I’ve been thinking about getting a dog,” I start in casually, “but I can’t pick a breed. I need something dependable, smart, loyal. And I know most people say go for a lab—”

“My dear,” Mr. Lowell interjects, already beaming. “You’ve asked just the man. I happen to be a bit of a dog expert.”

“I had a feeling”—I grin in reply—“that you would be a fountain of knowledge.”