The Next Mrs Russo

Then, after putting on clean lingerie, I slip into one of my own creations. It’s a simple silhouette, a flowy caftan minidress that I pieced together using the remains of a destroyed Valentino ballgown. The silk is gorgeous, a print in the same shade of pink as my flowers mixed with mint green and purple. The sleeves end several inches above my wrists and the hemline is just a few inches long enough not to be risqué.

I was going to sell it, but something made me hold onto it. Kismet, maybe.

I do my make-up in light nudes with a rosy pink lip and go heavier on the eyes, with a dramatic liner and generous use of my favorite eyeshadow palette.

I look good.

No, I look incredible.

This is the power of fashion. The power to shift moods. The power of confidence. Because in this dress, I’m not thinking about how I don’t deserve Warren. Or maybe only a small part of me that is.

But the rest of me?

The rest of me’s a confident vixen, ready for date night.

* * *

We go to an upscale steakhouse for dinner, the kind of place fancy enough that it simply uses its address as its restaurant name, 677 Prime. The décor is whimsical and romantic and the menu is even better.

I’ve already peeked at the dessert menu and, well, any fancy restaurant that has a bag of warm donut holes on its dessert menu is a winner in my book.

But first we order appetizers—a wedge salad for Warren and a strawberry goat’s cheese salad for me. Because fancy. For our entrées Warren orders a NY Strip and I opt for the sea bass, served with some kind of chili lime sauce that is so heavenly I want to lick the plate. I don’t, but it’s a close call. Mostly because I’m distracted by the most incredible mashed potatoes I’ve ever put in my mouth. They don’t even call them mashed potatoes. They refer to them as ‘triple butter potato puree.’ All I know is I nearly ask the waiter to marry me.

And then there’s the aforementioned donut holes. Tossed in cinnamon and served with dipping sauces. Chocolate, caramel and, because this restaurant is not playing, raspberry.

I’ve died and gone to heaven.

That’s right. These donut holes are like a divine home run.

I’m on my third donut hole when Warren laughs, and I tear my eyes away from my dipping sauces long enough to look at him.

“What?” I ask, trying to swallow so that I don’t have a mouthful of cinnamon-sugared donut when I ask the question.

“Just appreciating your enthusiasm.”

“Well, I’m appreciating that you ordered the chocolate cake and haven’t taken a single bite of it.”

Obviously that’s my take-home dessert and Warren just got sexier. Like how is he even real?

“I love your confidence and sense of self,” he says and I’m tempted to look over my shoulder. Confident? Me? “You’ve got gumption.”

“Yeah, well…” I play with the rim of my water glass, a bit uncomfortable with the praise. “I don’t know if Gary’s therapist would agree with you.”

He laughs, his eyes sparkling. “You mean the pet psychic?”

“Yeah.”

“Please, elaborate,” he requests, leaning in as if he’s actually interested in the details.

“She thinks I’m indecisive,” I say with a small huff. “Which is why Gary acts out.”

“Acts out? By doing cat things?”

I nod and stuff another donut hole in my mouth.

“Hmm. Well, I feel like I should get the obvious out of the way.”

“Please do.” I shrug, ready for it.

“The pet psychic doesn’t know anything about you.”

“Hmm.” I suppose that’s a very nice way of saying the pet psychic is a scam. Which is what I was expecting him to say.

“You never hesitate. You always say exactly what’s on your mind.”

Oh, I really don’t. Like not even half of it.

“That’s only because I don’t have a filter,” I tell him. Really, the only reason every stupid thought in my head doesn’t make it out of my mouth is a simple lack of time combined with a dash of self-preservation.

Warren shakes his head. “I’ve seen you at work. You don’t waver. You had a game plan for an estate sale. You move nonstop in your shop, I’ve seen you. Once you get an idea in your head you’re unstoppable.”

“Pfft.” I wave a hand. “That’s just my process.”

“I think you’re proving my point.”

I bite my lip. He doesn’t understand. And I don’t know how to make him understand without revealing more than I want to.

“Never mind,” I say, picking at another donut. “Like you said, just a pet psychic. I guess that sometimes… sometimes, I just wonder if I’ll ever be good enough.”

It’s vague. He’ll think I’m talking about my job which, honestly, I’ve felt that a thousand times. Imposter syndrome’s a fucking bitch.

But he won’t know I’m really talking about him.