The Next Mrs Russo

“Currently? We’re watching a young woman spend more money than most people make in a year on a dress she’s only going to wear for an hour, because this is just the ceremony dress. She’s already purchased another dress for the reception.”

“Ridic,” Bethany mutters, shaking her head as Gary taps her hand with his paw, silently requesting pets. “Watching these shows is so much better with a friend,” she adds, already scratching Gary behind his ears.

And the thing is… she means me, not Gary.

She likes me. She thinks I’m cool. She called me a friend.

I am sort of cool, I think with an iota of smug satisfaction. Then I ruin it by wondering how I can brag to Miller about what a totally cool Saturday night I had.

“What’s wrong?” Bethany asks, because I think I just sighed out loud. At myself.

“Nothing. It’s just she would look so much better in an A-line.” I wave at the screen.

“What’s an A-line?”

I grab a pad of paper off one of the shelves nearby and do a quick sketch of what I’d put this bride in. Then, before I know it, I draw a few more, explaining the different styles to Bethany and how each one fits different body types and why some are more flattering than others.

“But it should always be up to the bride,” I stress. “Even if she wants something horrible. It’s her wedding, after all.”

“That makes sense,” Bethany agrees. “But, like, you fix dresses all the time. How would you fix that dress?”

She points to what I can only describe as the dress version of a cupcake. And not a good cupcake, either. A cupcake that has exploded and is drooping with extra frosting. There’s tulle everywhere, floating off the shoulders, the bodice, and the button of the gown.

“Well,” I say, thinking about it. “First, I’d look for the good. What can I recover from that, and how do I use it as a foundation?”

I grab the pad of paper again and move my pencil across the page, sketching the dress on screen but also editing as I go to make it mine.

“I like the sweetheart neckline,” I say. “Always a classic. I’d take all the extra tulle off the skirt and take these straps and make them thinner. Maybe add some beading to the bodice. I’d rework the back and make it a low-back style, and then I’d raise the hemline, for sure. Maybe I’d reuse some of the tulle to make little cap sleeves and I’d keep all the excess tulle for another dress.”

My hand flies across the paper, adding embellishments as I go. I erase and sketch again and again, and before I know it, I’ve got the redesign right there in pencil on the page.

Bethany peeks at my sketch, her eyes bulging as she looks at it and then at the screen. “You’re a magician,” she says. “You could really do that?”

I grin. “I’ve never done a wedding dress before, but I’ve worked on a few ballgowns before, and they’re basically the same thing.”

“God, I hope you design my dress someday,” she says, swooning.

“I’d have to design mine first,” I say with a laugh, and then I practically choke.

Her eyes widen.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “I’m not making my own wedding dress soon. Or at all. Maybe never. Who knows. I was just saying that, given how I’m older than you, it would make sense math-wise…”

Bethany laughs. “You’re too adorable,” she says, like she’s the adult and I’m the teenager. But it’s not bratty in the least. It’s sweet, actually.

“It’s really not what I meant,” I mutter, feeling a blush heat up my cheeks.

Because really? Forever is never happening. For so many reasons.

We’re not actually dating. He’s fixing my plumbing, and I’m pretending to be his girlfriend because I’m tolerable. Or more tolerable than whatever other randos his mom was attempting to set him up with.

And then there’s my shady past.

Ugh.

My past.

I can still see Carrie and her little smirk as she gloated, dangling the history of my colossal crash-and-burn.

Which, fine, maybe I’m a bit of a mess, but I’m fixing my life. I’m turning it around. I have talent. My dresses are good. My business is taking off.

And no, my relationship with the governor isn’t real. It’ll never last. I’ll have to put a stop to it at some point for his sake.

But for now, is it so wrong to enjoy the moment? To take advantage of our chemistry that is objectively off-the-charts?

“Wanna watch another episode?” Bethany asks, bringing me back to the present. “Or I know another one we could watch,” she offers.

I tell myself that Bethany won’t be heartbroken when her dad and I go our separate ways. Plenty of women in New York love to watch reality shows. She’ll move on just fine. I gulp to keep from thinking about it too hard.