owls too?”
“What’s wrong with the owls?”
“They also eat mice.”
“Ugh.” I groan. “Forget it. It’s hopeless.”
“Should I give you a little pep talk about the circle of life and tie it up with a charming sports anecdote?”
“I never said the sports references were charming.”
“But you thought it, surely.”
I bite my lip to make sure that the words, ‘Yes, I absolutely do,’ don’t slip out. Because of course I find them charming. Even if I don’t understand them, I know he enjoys them and somehow that makes me happy. It’s silly, really.
And could I Google them the way I Google everything about Warren Russo? So that I had a clue about random sports facts? Sure, I could. But understanding them isn’t really the point.
“I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes,’” he says, smirking.
“You’d be wrong,” I say, trying for my own stab at “aloof” but likely just sounding like I have nothing intelligent to say back. Which is true, but whatever. Besides, I’m a little breathless from the run. No other reason.
A cell phone I didn’t even know he had on him rings as I’m contemplating a better comeback. I can tell from my eavesdropping that he’s gotta run. Literally.
“Well,” he says, “I’ll see you tonight.”
I flip my ponytail and accidentally smack myself in the face with a mouthful of hair. By the time I’ve escaped the strands, he’s already jogging off in the other way, laughing again in that way that makes my crush intensify to dangerous proportions.
I’m going to need an extremely hot dress to make up for this. Like, scorched-earth, possibly-made-in-hell-itself level hot.
And I think I know just the dress to do it.
Chapter Ten
My jogging adventure with the governor revealed one very important fact that I’m pretty sure would never have come up during my research, and that is that Warren Russo is, without a doubt, an ass man.
I’m not saying he’s exclusively an ass man. In fact, in my own extremely varied and not at all subpar personal experience, men aren’t usually just one or the other. Like, if I encounter an ass man and I am wearing a top that shows off my chest, they’re not gonna pass on a glance. Nope. Not at all. But Warren’s attention to my leggings, zebra print and all, gives me an idea for which dress to start with.
It started as a Chanel dress from the late 90s with a dark, watercolor print on the top, beaded trim and straps, and a flouncy skirt on the bottom. The bottom was torn, and not in a clean way, either. More like a dog got a hold of it. A dog with very sharp teeth and a grudge.
Or possibly, if I’m being fanciful, someone wore it to a fundraiser sort of thing and it was so boring that they decided to just hack away at it with a butter knife until someone noticed.
Point being, the bottom’s a lost cause, but the rest of it is good fabric and I know I can transform it. Into something perfect, and just for me.
It’s not the kind of job I’d normally try to fit into a day—or, more precisely, less than a day—but I’m still feeling jittery and, fine, a little horny, so I figure I need to channel my energy into something. And honestly, I feel like Coco would appreciate my predicament.
Miller doesn’t approve of the straps. He says they look dated, and will make me look old, and once I’ve heard him say that I decide he’s right. So they’ve got to go too. Not that I’m going to say it out loud. As if Miller needs an ounce of encouragement. Besides, everyone knows that giving a teenager a compliment only gives them ammo to throw in your face when you least expect it.
“You should plunge the neckline too,” he says.
“I don’t need your help,” I grumble.
He laughs. “Oh, you definitely do.”
In the end, though, I do plunge the neckline. I nip and tuck more than a Hollywood plastic surgeon, giving the dress a very fitted look that’s flattering on my figure. Really flattering, and I’m not one to give compliments to myself freely. In fact, one look in the mirror tells me that this is one of my best creations to date.
Proof that, sometimes, not thinking too much is the best course of action. That, and sometimes waiting until the last minute pays off.
Which is another thing you should never admit to a teenager.
Anyway, not thinking probably isn’t the best mindset to take