The Next Mrs Russo

“Do what?” James replies, if I’m correct, in a tone meant to purposely egg Warren on. “Did you expect me to come alone this evening?”

“It wouldn’t have killed you,” Warren mutters, but it’s loud enough for James to hear.

“Crystal’s a nice girl. Why do you have to insult her?”

“I’m not insulting her. But it would be nice to see you with the same woman more than once.”

“Pfft. Now you sound like Mom.”

“I’m her favorite for a reason,” Warren quips and this time James laughs out loud.

“You wish. I took her to the Golden Globes.” James grins, comfortable in his charm. “The only places you take her are boring charity dinners. I’m definitely the favorite.”

“Please, you’d only be her favorite if I didn’t exist,” Warren says with an actual roll of his eyes. It’s kind of amusing seeing these two bicker like teenagers. “But I do, so there you have it.”

“Yeah, fine, but it’s only because you’re the governor.” James finally relents, winking at me as he does. “Assuming she voted for you, I suppose we can agree you’re the favorite. But only since I’m not running for anything.”

Warren makes a noise that might be a grunt, but in typical Warren fashion it’s a bit hard to quantify. But then he adds, in very clear words, “Stop hitting on my date.”

My eyes widen. Was that… was that a level of territorialism that I detected? Because if it was, I’m totally here for it.

James shakes his head, his face suddenly devoid of all joking, his perfectly chiseled Hollywood face drawing in concern. “If you think this is flirting, now I understand why you need Mom to set you up on dates.”

And then he smiles. A big, megawatt, big-screen smile. And just like that the earnest concern is gone.

Damn, he’s a much better actor than anyone gives him credit for.

“At least I don’t get paid to flirt,” Warren shoots back.

“Hey, don’t make light of my craft,” James quips, but his tone is totally deadpan and he levels a look at Warren that he’d probably get paid ten grand for if a camera was rolling.

And honestly, I’m not sure if they’re really bickering right now or if sparring is just something brothers never grow out of.

Also, I have to admit, it’s a little hot. I mean, I’m Team Warren all the way, as far as the brothers go. But James has his own sexy Hollywood thing going on.

“At least my dates stick around,” Warren adds, with a final pointed look at James.

Fake date, I want to point out. But I’m still Team Warren so I keep my mouth shut.

Also I don’t think adding that detail will help me with the goal of my two-step plan, which is finding out if the big dick energy is warranted.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of charming and schmoozing. Warren’s hand brushes my bare thigh at one point towards the end, but that’s only because he dropped something. Still, it gives me a thrill. A cheap thrill, sure. Sue me.

Finally, finally we’re back at the mansion. Alone.

This is it, am I right? I’m feeling the thing. The energy, the connection. As the front door clicks shut behind us I’m certain that my chances of a repeat makeout session have increased by at least a home run. Or a first-round draft pick. Or… maybe there’s not a sports metaphor for math percentages. Whatever. My chances for a repeat are good.

I turn to catch Warren’s gaze on me, and I’m positive that he’s thinking the same thing.

He opens his mouth, ready to invite me to his room. Ready to ravish me. Ready to—

A furry ball of fluff zips between us, nearly tripping me, and I watch in horror as Gary turns to face us, a wriggling chipmunk in his mouth.

I barely get the words “Gary Marcus Gibson!” out of my mouth before Duke barrels around the corner, desperate to get in on the chipmunk action.

So much for sex.

Looks like I’ve got to save Chip. Or maybe Dale. Not sure.

The point is, I’ve been cock-blocked by a chipmunk.

And I’m definitely not happy about it.

Chapter Fifteen

I have questions.

So many questions.

Like, how the hell did Gary get a hold of a chipmunk and why does he hate me? Gary, not the chipmunk. I’ve been nothing but good to that cat and acting out like this is how he repays me?

Unreal.

“Your cat has a middle name?”

This question comes from Warren, obviously. And his expression is, for once, not hard to read. It’s fairly clear that he finds this information difficult to believe. Why, I do not know.

“Doesn’t Duke?” I stare back at Warren, equally incredulous. “How on earth do you get his attention when you want him to know you are mere seconds from counting to three?”

Warren blinks. Tilts his head to the side. He looks like he’s thinking about saying something and as much as I enjoy hearing everything he has to say, now is not the time.