The Next Mrs Russo

“Whoa, whoa. I don’t actually think this is going to work out,” I protest in alarm. That was my exit-stage-left speech. I never even mentioned a word about his very kissable lips and I kept all of his positive attributes to myself. Like the way he doesn’t interrupt reporters when they ask him questions. And the way he actually answers the questions in a way everyone can understand.

That’s hot.

He loves to use PowerPoint slides to get his point across, which is sort of ridiculous but, I gotta admit, effective. He makes you believe that PowerPoint has been undervalued amongst the presentation platforms for its sex appeal. They should probably donate to his re-election fund.

He’s smart. And focused. He’s got the most piercing brown eyes. I know hot guys always have a stupid cliché piercing gaze but there’s something about his that makes you feel like he’s listening, already processed everything and moved three steps ahead.

It’s reassuring.

Except for right now, when it’s focused on me.

I also left out that there’s a whole segment of single women in New York who refer to him as a GILF: Governor I’d Like to Fuck.

Which is rude. Crude? Both? In our defense, governors are normally pudgy old white guys so Warren is something of an anomaly. Italian. Forties hot, which everyone knows is even hotter than twenties hot. Like the way some actors get hotter with age. You know what I mean? Like that guy in that teen show who was always cute but then one day he shows up on a Netflix series with a beard and you nearly fall off your couch?

Like that.

Anyway. GILF. Look, I didn’t make that up, someone else did. But now I’m thinking about it and I’m blushing and I cannot look directly at him. It’s like looking at the sun. Stupid, stupid crush.

“Why ever not?” Mrs Bianchi is the first to object to my objection, her eyes narrowed like a woman used to getting what she wants.

“He only likes blondes,” I blurt out. Oh, God. God damn my internet searches.

“But you are blonde,” Mrs Bianchi interjects with a puzzled frown.

“Oh, this is super fake.” I wave a hand around my head. “Dyed.” That’s another lie. I actually am a real blonde. Someone make me stop.

“That’s not a requirement, actually.” This from Warren, the flicker of an amused smile crossing his face. It’s brief, gone as quick as it arrived, but it’s a sucker punch nonetheless because one hit of that smirk and I’m jonesing for another.

“Has anyone vetted this girl, Marcia?” Artie waves the file folder he’s holding around in dismay while starting to pace the room. “You can’t just drag some woman off the street and set them up.”

Well. Technically she dragged me in from a shop across the street, but semantics.

Also, Artie’s not wrong.

“She could be a criminal. Or vote third party.”

Thanks, Artie.

Still… not entirely wrong. I bite my lip.

“Agreed,” I pipe in. “It’s voter fraud. It was nice meeting you, Governor. I should head out now.”

That exit speech would have been far more effective if I hadn’t switched to a weird British accent when I got to the word ‘Governor,’ as if I’m an orphan in a Dickens novel. Guv’nor. Guv’nor. Guv’nor. I’m gonna orphan myself straight to another continent as soon as I get out of this office. Then I’m going to change my name and burn my passport.

Warren does that thing with his two fingers when he wants to interrupt. “How is this voter fraud, exactly?” he asks, his expression leaning towards incredulous. It’s hard to tell because he does the guarded aloof thing so well.

“Um, like a lie?” I offer. For crying out loud, it’s not like I have any idea what I’m talking about. If I’d known my day was going to include a pop quiz on government regulations I’d have studied beforehand.

“No, no,” Mrs Bianchi is quick to interject. “It’s just a setup! I can’t create a dating profile for him online. We all agreed that was a bad idea. Besides, I have one of my Very Good Feelings about Audrey.”

Warren slides a glance in her direction, and I’m no psychic but I think she’s getting a very ugly sweater for Christmas this year.

“Enough. Everyone out,” he finally snaps, ending this charade.

Thank God. I’m sure I visibly sigh in relief as I turn for the doorway.

“Not you”—Warren pauses a fraction of a second, as if searching his memory like a card catalog—“Audrey.”

I freeze. Oh. He means for everyone to get out except me.

“We have to leave in five,” Artie comments on his way out the door behind Mrs Bianchi. Even Duke trots out. That kind of obedience is impressive, actually. I wouldn’t be in this mess if Gary had an ounce of respect for my workplace, or mice.

Warren rises from the desk he’s been half sitting on, not stopping until he’s two feet in front of me. Maybe eighteen inches. He studies me for a long moment with a calculating gaze that makes me assume he’s three steps ahead of me on something.