The Next Mrs Russo

That’s right. Clients. Plural. Word’s getting around, and not one, not two, but three people came into my shop this morning.

Now, though, there’s an afternoon lull.

And Warren’s asking about my imaginary second bathroom.

“It’s, um, on the floor with the bedrooms,” I say. “You know, the floor that you’re currently tearing apart to fix the whole ceiling-falling-apart leak issue.”

“What about your other bathroom?”

“Oh,” I say. “That bathroom. That’s on the third floor.”

He raises an eyebrow at me and I’m trying not to look straight at him. His hands are dirty, practically filthy. He’ll need to take a hot shower to burn off all of that grime. A hot, sudsy shower. He’ll probably need help with all that lathering.

I catch Miller smirking at me and shut my mind all the way up.

“You don’t have a third floor,” Warren says.

“Really?” I reply, acting faux-surprised. “Well, then I guess you’ll have to fix the one bathroom that I have.”

“Audrey,” he says, drawing out my name and causing a delightful shiver to run down my spine. “This job will not be completed in one day. Your plumbing is an antiquated mess. I don’t even have all the supplies here I’ll need to fix it. Your bathroom will be unusable for days.”

I blink at him, picking up my water bottle to sip as I consider this new information. “Then I’ll make friends with the gas station across the street. I’m pretty sure the weekend guy has a crush on me and, besides, I can be very persuasive.” That’s a lie, actually. I’m not really all that persuasive. And if I were, I wouldn’t be wasting it trying to get the key to a gas station bathroom.

Warren sighs, a loud exhale of air as he shakes his head and, if I’m not mistaken, rolls his eyes at my foolishness. “You can stay with me.”

I choke on the water. “At the mansion? Nuh-uh. No way.”

“You’ll have to.” Warren shrugs, casting another rueful glance at my ceiling.

“Nope. I can hold it. I’m a good holder. Excellent bladder control.”

Shut. Up. Audrey.

That’s the voice in my head, but I know Miller is thinking it too. I know this because I make the mistake of glancing at him and he mouths it at me, word for word, complete with a slashing of his hand across his throat.

“You won’t,” Warren carries on, missing the entire performance that Miller is putting on behind his back. “That’s ridiculous. And unnecessary. You’ll stay with me.”

“I’ll do no such thing, Guv’nor.”

Oh, God. Yeah. I both empathized the word no very weirdly and then added the weird Guv’nor thing again. And yes, okay, I said the entire thing in a British accent.

Miller shakes his head slowly, a look of sad disappointment covering his face.

But really, as if I’m going to move in with Warren Russo? Not even for a few days. There’s no way that’ll work out without me making a complete idiot of myself by hitting on him. Or what if I have another sex dream about him? While he’s sleeping just down the hall? Can you even imagine? What if I talk out loud during my sex dreams? What if I moan in my sleep and say something like, “Give it to me, Guv’nor?” I mean, sure, I like to believe my actual sex talk is better than that but surely I have no control over my dream sex talk.

No. Nope. I should absolutely not stay with him for any length of time. Even a night.

“She’ll do it,” Miller interjects while I turn to glare at him.

“Great,” Warren agrees, already turning away as if this has been resolved. As if Miller is the boss of me, which is ridiculous because he’s seventeen and I’m his boss. Or I would be if I actually employed him. But whatever.

I take turns glaring at Warren’s retreating back and Miller’s gloating face, trying to think of a way out of this. Except gas station bathrooms are super nasty. And I don’t actually know who works there on the weekend. Or any other day, for that matter.

“Fine,” I announce. “That’ll be fine.” No one is listening to me, but it feels good to say it anyway.

* * *

I arrive at the governor’s mansion later that day with a bag full of clothes, toiletries, and cat supplies. The cat in question is cradled in my arms like a big round fur-covered orange watermelon, purring contentedly at the sight of his new digs. He’s looking a bit smug, actually. As if this is exactly the type of residence he believed I was going to provide him with when I adopted him, instead of the beat-up brownstone we live in.

“What is that?” Warren says the second he opens the door, his brows rising incredulously at the sight of Gary.

“This is Gary,” I explain as I set him on his feet in the foyer of the governor’s mansion. “He’s a cat.”