The Next Mrs Russo - Jana Aston Page 0,7

It’s so not. Everyone in this room knows it’s not taken care of, even the guy who just walked in. Even Duke knows. “I like Audrey. I’ve got one of my feelings about her,” she adds, her voice triumphant and a very satisfied expression on her face as she nods, as if to officially seal her good feeling.

“One of your feelings,” Warren repeats back, one hand now rubbing the back of his neck, his body language indicating just how much he doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

The new guy sighs, like he knows what’s coming.

Duke sighs. I’m not sure if he knows what’s coming too or if he just wants in on the action. To be fair, he might just want another belly rub.

“You crazy, meddling…”

“Twenty-six hours of labor, Warren!” Mrs Bianchi interrupts, with what sounds like an argument she’s made a time or two hundred before.

“Forty years ago, Mother. I appreciate the twenty-six hour marathon to birth me forty years ago, but it’s time to move on from that particular line of argument.”

I snort.

No one pays any attention to me. Except Duke. He nudges my hand with his wet nose and steps on my foot.

“Where did you even find her?” Warren continues waving a hand in my general direction, his gaze still firmly on his mother. “Did you set up a website? Date a governor dot com?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Warren.”

“It’s hard not to be, Mother, when I’m genetically related to you. Which we know, due to the many, many references to your having given birth to me. I’ve learned ridiculousness from the best.”

“We all agreed you needed a date for the wedding this weekend,” Mrs Bianchi continues on, clearly not bothered by Warren’s dig on his heredity.

“We”—Warren stresses the word—“agreed on no such thing.”

“The governor’s mansion is not a bachelor pad, Warren! It’s a family home.”

“What a stunning argument, Mother. And here I was about to get rid of that old sofa in the living room and install an indoor hot tub.”

“Don’t be smart, Warren.”

“Marcia,” the new guy says and there’s a familiarity in his tone. A fond familiarity, but I’m not sure how they’re connected. They’re close in age if I had to guess and he’s clearly well versed with Mrs Bianchi and her… feelings.

Then they start bickering between each other in an old-married-couple kind of way and there’s some talk of discussing it later at home and I think they might be a couple, but I’m not entirely sure at this point. They’re delightful, whatever they are.

“He needs to start thinking about the next Mrs Russo.” Mrs Bianchi is doing her best to sell this to the new guy, clearly having given up on dealing with Warren directly about his own life. “This bachelor nonsense cannot continue on indefinitely. It’s bad for polling and it’s bad for my angina.”

Yes, she clutches her chest dramatically with that claim.

“You don’t have angina,” Warren says drily.

“Well, I could.” She levels Warren with a glare, be it for interrupting or questioning her non-existent medical condition, I’m not sure. “It could develop at any time. What do you know about angina? You refused to go to medical school so I could have a doctor in the family.”

“Artie, did you know about this?” Warren ignores his mother’s diatribe about his lack of a medical degree, his attention now on Artie, as if he’ll be able to drag the truth out of him simply by glaring at him.

“Of course not. Though it’s not a terrible idea, at face value. Your image could use some”—Artie pauses—“softening.”

“What’s wrong with my image?”

“Oh, I know!” I interject. I don’t know why I’m so excited to have this answer but, to be honest, it feels good to finally have something to contribute to this conversation. I even wave my hand a little, like someone might call on me for the right answer.

Three heads swivel in my direction. Four if you count Duke’s, but I already had his attention so I’m not sure he counts.

“They say you’re demanding,” I launch right in, lowering my hand to count on my fingers as I rattle off what I recall from reading random headlines about him on the internet. “Tough to work with.” Finally some of my internet research is paying off. “Aloof,” I add, but those people are insane. I mean, yeah, he did just shake my hand like he wanted me to use it to vote for him in the next election instead of using it to unzip his