The Next Mrs Russo

“You need a poodle,” he says. “Just the breed for you. Standard, I’m thinking, to make sure you’re protected. At least when your governor isn’t around.”

“A poodle?” Warren asks, already frowning. “Isn’t that a bit—”

“Impressive?” I say, shooting a warning glance in his direction. “What a wonderful suggestion, Mr Lowell. I’ve always found the poodle to be an especially sexy breed. And classic. So often overlooked for the labs and the bulldogs, don’t you think?”

“Precisely,” Mr. Lowell says, stamping the table with his fist. “I knew you had taste. Oh, I’ve got some pictures of my own to show you. Let me just get this damn phone to work…”

I oooh and ahh over his thirteen very lucky poodles for the next ten minutes as Mr. Lowell details their proper care, exercise, and unique personalities. It’s a lot to take in, but Mr. Lowell’s loving it. I get the feeling he doesn’t get asked about this a lot, and he’s been dying to talk about his expertise. And his love of his sweet poopoos. His words, not mine.

And no, I don’t ask if they’re in the will.

And yes, not asking is very, very hard.

Warren, for his part, just sort of watches. I can’t read his face—like his ex-wife, he’s apparently perfected the unreadable expression—but charming the donors is the point, so I charge full steam ahead, especially when I see an opening for another topic.

“I think when I get my poodle, I’ll name her Marilyn,” I say. “After Marilyn Monroe. I’m in fashion, and she’s always been an icon of mine.”

Mr. Lowell basically hits the roof at that point. With joy. Now we’re both talking a mile a minute, and he’s demanding that I show him photos of my dresses as we swap our favorite films. The laughs he’s giving me are shockingly real, and he’s grinning from ear to ear by the time they bring dessert.

Dessert, thank God. I’ve earned it, which is good because it’s crème brûlée, and I was going to eat it whether I’d earned it or not because everyone knows that when done well, crème brûlée is just as good as, if not better than, an orgasm. And I’m for sure not getting one of those from Warren, so.

Mr. Lowell excuses himself to use the gentlemen’s room and Warren turns his attention directly on me. It’s sort of hypnotizing, or maybe that’s the glass of wine I had with dinner. Or perhaps because this crème brûlée is definitely done to perfection. I tap my spoon against the caramelized sugar crust and try not to shiver.

“That… was incredible,” he says.

“Night’s not over yet,” I say, scooping up a huge spoonful of crème brûlée. “I could still ruin it. Just watch me.”

He laughs. “No, truly. How did you know that stuff?”

I could pretend to be some kind of political savant, but I’m not a good enough liar. “I Googled him while I was waiting for you to pick me up,” I say. “I’m a pretty good Googler.”

“You’re an excellent Googler,” he agrees, considering me carefully while I shovel creamed sugar into my mouth. “Huh. Maybe I do need a girlfriend.”

I nearly drop my spoon. “Whatever for?”

He laughs. I stare at him and think, Please say sex, please say sex, please say sex, hoping the offer burns a telepathic line directly into his brain.

But I don’t get an answer, at least, not now. Mr. Lowell’s back, and we’re wrapping up the evening, complete with Mr. Lowell making me promise to send over a few dresses for Mrs Lowell. He also takes Warren aside once we’re outside, and based on that handshake and Warren’s smile, I’m guessing the donation won’t be a small one.

“So,” I say as soon as we’re in the car. Like, the moment his door slams shut and before he’s even got his seat belt fastened. “What was that about you needing a girlfriend? I think you mentioned something about ravishing me and—”

“You’re very charming.”

“I am.” I nod quickly, trying to remember if a man has ever described me as charming as a way to get me into bed. I don’t think it’s the sexiest of attributes, but it’s a step up from tolerable and—

“Mr. Lowell adored you,” he continues. “You’re a natural at charming campaign donors.”

“Oh,” I say, because of course. Old men with poodles and an appreciation of Marilyn Monroe, sure. Those I can charm the pants off of.

But Warren? Apparently not.

“Well,” I say, “I guess it wasn’t as boring as I expected it to be.”

We don’t say anything for the rest of the drive, which is thankfully short. Another evening to write off as not terrible, but not exactly satisfying, I guess. Looks like I’ll be taking an extra-long jog in the morning. I’ve got my car door open as soon as he pulls up to my curb so that he can’t pull any more chivalrous bullshit that leaves me saying something idiotic.