The Next Mrs Russo

Today is even more special though, because the bride in question is Estelle’s niece so it feels like a full-circle moment. After I made the dress for Estelle’s daughter, my customer list exploded. Apparently, her daughter’s something of an influencer, and one post about her “one-of-a-kind” dress and I can barely keep up with the demand. Which is crazy. It wasn’t that long ago that I was worried about earning enough to keep the lights on in my inherited brownstone. Now I employ Miller when he’s on school break along with two full-time seamstresses.

I’ve been called the Dress Resurrector, which is super cool. And badass. With this dress, though, it’s accurate. What I’ve done here is nothing short of resurrection. Miller referred to the ‘before’ of this dress as “eighties catastrophic.” He wasn’t wrong. Speaking of…

“Miller, can you bring me a few pins?” I ask. “I just want to bring up the hem a little.”

“We need to hire another assistant,” he sasses, tossing me the pins while I watch the bride turn in the mirror, checking how the dress skims her hips, the vintage lace overlay atop a creamy white satin. “I can’t be doing my own work and be at your beck and call every second, you know.”

“Hmm,” I murmur. “Have I fired you yet this week?”

“Not yet, and I was starting to worry it was another weird side effect of all the pregnancy hormones.”

“What are my other weird side effects?” I question, eyes narrowed.

“Where would I start?” Miller heaves a dramatic sigh. “That week you spent insisting you could taste colors—”

“I thought I could. It was a very confusing time.”

“Your demand that I surprise you with a bakery treat every time I come home from the city.”

“That’s no different from before I was pregnant.” I roll my eyes.

“I know,” he deadpans. “I was being kind.”

“Awww, Miller.”

“Your insistence on wearing maternity jeans,” he continues, because apparently he’s done doling out the compliments.

“Because I’m pregnant!” I interject. The nerve of this kid.

“When the baby was still the size of a donut hole,” he finishes.

The thing is, that stretchy panel is really, really comfortable. I side-eye Miller and shrug. “Okay, hush. I’m very busy here.” I wave a hand in the direction of the bride.

He smirks, heading back to his design table while I finish pinning the hem for the bride. She heads out a few minutes later with her mom in tow, huge smiles on both of their faces.

“Did you finish the last batch of signage for the Reclaimed Home?” Miller asks, hand already on the stair rail as he’s about to head upstairs to my paint studio. Once I moved all my things into Warren’s place, my old bedroom became my paint studio. Because I, Audrey Gibson Russo, have my own line of custom signs available exclusively at the Reclaimed Home. They send me boxes of signs and I deface them. Only now, instead of Sharpies, I use paint and each sign is hand-numbered and signed by me.

I’m not at all smug about selling more artwork than my ex.

Well, maybe just a little.

I had my old mugshot printed, in black and white because it made me feel like more of a badass, and then I hung it on the wall in my paint studio. It’s a reminder that sometimes your worst moments can lead to opportunities you never expected. And that starting over can lead you to something even better.

“Yeah, they’re dry and ready to be picked up,” I tell him as the shop door jingles and Warren’s tall, sexy frame appears in the doorway. I grin, a reaction I can never stop when he’s near. Then I rush over as quickly as a woman growing a baby that is surely now the size of an entire birthday cake can.

“I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. “And ask why I just found Duke walking around the house in a tweed vest.”

“Oh, that! That’s vintage Yves Saint Laurent!” I gush in excitement, remembering I set aside a half-finished matching baby jacket when my last client arrived. I rush over to my workstation and hold the tiny jacket up. “Duke is very excited about the baby and was feeling like they should all have a set of matchers.”

“Matchers?” Warren raises a brow in question, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Coordinating pieces. See, there’s a bow tie for Gary.” I dangle the tiny tie from my fingertips.

“Of course.” He nods, just as the baby gives me a swift kick.

“Oh,” I gasp, placing my hand on the spot.

Warren grins and slides his hand beneath mine. “Is she kicking again?”

Oh. That.