The Next Mrs Russo

How did I get here?

I know that I did it on my own. With my own hard work and belief in myself. I know the work speaks for itself. But Warren’s also interwoven in my business taking off. First, his mother found me and, yes, wore one of my dresses to a charity event in exchange for going out on a date with him. But hey, we all start somewhere. And it wasn’t exactly a hardship in the end, was it?

And then Warren introduced me to Estelle. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to spend a day driving me to an estate sale and vouching for my work to gain me a new client.

The idea that he cares for and believes in me is both inspiring and confusing. Maybe I’m not a fake girlfriend at this point. Maybe I’ve been promoted to, like, convenient girlfriend status. But would he do that for just a convenient girlfriend?

And then there’s been the sex.

Not for nothing, but it’s really good.

And really good sex should never be assumed or taken for granted. Take it from a girl who’s had plenty of, well, tolerable sex up until now.

Every night—and some mornings—we end up tied up in the sheets or tied up in each other, somehow, some way.

And not to be crass, but all this fucking is really fucking with my head.

It would be easier to figure out exactly what we’re doing if a) I just asked him or b) he didn’t have such a damn poker face. Seriously, he can be hard to read. Something that I’m sure benefits him in politics. Something that is most definitely hot to watch in a press conference. But in real life? It makes him pretty complicated.

Who knows, maybe all the great sex is just a hustle for my vote in the next election. Though I’m pretty sure he’s not sleeping with any other constituents. The sex feels like a perk just for me.

Though it’s so, so much more than a perk.

It’s… special.

Ugh. I want to punch myself in the face for being such a freaking sap.

It’s just that… when I’m with Warren it feels like I’m a better person. Like I’m the best version of me. I feel beautiful and capable and, hell, powerful. Like the world’s mine for the taking.

Of course I’m all that without him. I know that. I don’t need him to give me confidence. I don’t need him to make me happier than I am on my own.

I sigh. I’m getting carried away. This is like in high school when I was convinced that a certain sitcom star and I were going to get married even though we’d never met. I’m just building this up to be something bigger than it is.

So why can’t I stop?

I do my best to shake off my thoughts as I walk across the street to Warren’s house. Err, the governor’s mansion. But I’m so in my head, sorting through my mess of thoughts, that I completely zone out until I walk through the door.

Then I break into a huge grin.

Because Duke is sitting in the hallway, tail thumping in pride, holding the stem of a single hot pink rose in his mouth.

“I was hoping you were free for dinner.”

I turn at the sound of Warren’s deep voice, and there he is. I’m pretty sure I melt into the floor at the sight of him standing there in his suit, looking like he’s auditioning to be every fantasy I’ve ever had.

“This is for me, I presume?” I ask, taking the rose from Duke with a smile I can’t wipe off my face.

“I made reservations.”

Oh, my God. Flowers and dinner? And he planned this? Planning is the sexiest thing ever.

There’s no denying what this is.

This is a date.

A real, honest-to-God, no-debates-about-it date.

“And before you ask, they do have dessert,” he says. “I checked.”

Scratch what I said before about planning being the sexiest thing ever. Because that, right there? That’s the new sexiest thing ever.

He checked for dessert.

For me.

“Why don’t you get ready,” he says, and then he crosses the distance between us and kisses me. Briefly. Then he grins, pinches my ass and says, “Quick like a bunny.”

Okay, he’s not always hard to read.

It takes a lot of willpower not to grab his ass in return and derail this date into locking the bedroom door and having dinner delivered. I want to devour him.

But also, dessert was mentioned.

I skip up to my room and find another two dozen hot pink roses sitting in a vase on my dresser. Even Gary looks impressed.

Fine, he’s sleeping and ignoring me, but deep down I know he’s impressed.

I shower, the feeling in my stomach similar to the feeling you have before the first day of school or the night before a vacation. I moisturize—which is an accomplishment all on its own—and then blow-dry my hair. I usually air-dry because, well, I’m lazy. But an honest-to-goodness date calls for pulling out all the stops.