The Next Mrs Russo

“Audrey,” Warren says, reaching to grab my wrist. It’s not a hard grab, but one brush of his hand and I can imagine that same motion, only with my hands in the air above my head, his hold on me, the way his lips would part as he kissed along my neck…

Screw the jog. Looks like Victor the vibrator is getting some action tonight.

“I mean it,” he says, dropping his hand. “I really appreciate what you did tonight.”

“Well, come to me for all your donor-charming needs, I guess,” I mumble because I don’t know if he’s flirting or campaigning. Perhaps needing a girlfriend to charm donors is nearly an admission of love for a politician? I’m willing to make some serious concessions to make this work.

“I think I will,” he says, and now we both look at each other, and if I don’t get out of this car, I might just attempt to straddle him in this car. Which is ridiculous. It would take me like three minutes to wiggle over the console and into his lap, and then the steering wheel would be digging into my back and the entire thing would be the exact opposite of sexy.

So no. I’m not actually going to do it.

His eyes drop to my neckline, to the Chanel dress. His hand still hangs in the space between us, and he uses it to run his finger along the neckline.

That’s it. If he doesn’t make a move, I’m going to have to. Governor or no governor. Because this must be flirting, right? It must.

“Did you make this?”

Or… is he making fun of me? I puff up a little, thinking he’s about to insult my upcycled design redo. “Yes,” I say. “It’s repurposed Chanel.”

“It’s lovely,” he says.

Now I’m blushing, and not just on my face. I can feel the heat on my neck and chest and arms.

“I see why my mother came into your shop,” he says. “You do great work.”

I almost say, Yes, I do, so good that if you wanted to rip this off of me, I could put it back together. Easy peasy. But I collect myself instead and bat my eyelashes in his direction.

“Right,” I finally say. “Well, I better head in…”

I give him a pointed look. Any man would know that I’m basically handing out an invitation to follow me inside.

Only he doesn’t take it. He nods and pulls his hand back. “Well, have a good night, Audrey. I’ll be over tomorrow to fix the plumbing issue.”

Of course. Because this is an exchange of goods and services, though unfortunately, not the goods or services I was hoping for.

It’s going to be a long night, I think with a sad sigh. I can only hope that Victor is fully charged.

Chapter Eleven

“Where’s your bathroom?”

It’s the kind of question that should, if the world was being at all reasonable, come right before a romp between the sheets. It’s a question a man might ask before he raids your cabinet looking for some mouthwash in anticipation.

And yes, okay, it’s also a question that could be asked by guests who are over at someone’s place for the first time, but it should be a hint that something good is coming.

This is especially true if said man has shown up at your place wearing nothing but an old shirt and worn, loose jeans with a speck of paint on one leg. A shirt that teases at the taut skin on his back and hints at his jogging-earned perfectly flat abs.

Everyone knows this look is pure seduction, right? I’m not crazy for visualizing the beginning of a really sexy porn in which a hot plumber arrives offering to fix all of my problems?

But alas, it appears I have been misled, because one look at Warren in my brownstone tells me that, no, asking where my bathroom is will not be the start of a wild, sex-filled afternoon. And yes, I might be a little crazy for my wayward dirty thoughts.

He looks too serious, too invested in my plumbing. Or, more specifically, the brownstone’s plumbing. An afternoon of him banging around and tearing into my kitchen ceiling has revealed not just one leak but a whole host of issues that need more attention. Apparently, the aunt who willed this place was DIYing it all over the place, and, well, Warren says I’m lucky to be alive. Which I think is an exaggeration borne of years spent politicking, but whatever.

To be honest, I’m feeling a certain kinship with my old aunt Mabel. Who knew shoddy DIY was hereditary? It’s kinda sweet, actually.

Anyway, besides all that, we aren’t alone. I suppose it’s fine that this plumbing episode has been rated strictly PG because Miller has made himself the opposite of scarce. In fact, that nosy little busybody actually brought homework with him. In case it was slow, he said. If it was slow, I pointed out, he could just go home, since, as we’ve well since established, he doesn’t work here. He just tossed a chemistry book onto my worktable and murmured, “Not a chance,” under his breath. I couldn’t even chastise him because he used that overeager attitude on helping my clients.