The Next Mrs Russo - Jana Aston Page 0,57

I skip the lilies out of habit, since they’re toxic to cats. I’m going to bring these to the store and Gary’s at the mansion but any flower capable of killing my cat does not spark any joy so they’re a big pass.

I hand the bundle over to Frank and he wraps them up right there in brown craft paper and honestly this is the very best part of the farmers’ market. Even better than the cinnamon rolls, which is saying something.

After that, I walk Duke back to his house and then head into work with a spring in my step and my farmers’ market loot in my arms. Since it’s Saturday, I’ve got several appointments scheduled and besides that, I’m feeling very creative today.

It’s probably from the sex.

Speaking of, what if I slip up and tell Bethany I slept with her dad? Obviously no normal person would make that kind of slip-up, but I spent the morning sitting on a concrete patio trying to make amends with a chipmunk who may or may not have even been the correct chipmunk, so clearly I have every right to be concerned with my potential to fuck today up and send the governor’s daughter into years of therapy.

No pressure.

It’s just, what if she doesn’t like her dad’s fake girlfriend?

Because that’s all I am, right? A fake girlfriend. This thing between Warren and me is just about plumbing and favors. And sex. And my raging crush on him.

It’s not like we’re right for each other. Or like this is going anywhere. So what am I even anxious about?

I exhale a very decisive breath and decide I’m not anxious about anything. And if you think you can’t exhale decisively, stuff it. I’m taking my wins where I can.

When I arrive at work—also known as my house—Miller is already there because somewhere along the way he obtained his own key.

Fine, fine. I gave it to him. For emergencies. And also because he told me he wasn’t willing to climb in through my window if I locked myself out again.

One time. It happened one time, for the record.

Miller claims it’s happened to him zero times, but whatever.

He gives me a look as I walk in with the bouquet.

“What? I’m not late,” I protest like I’m the teenager and not the boss. “We don’t open for another”—I pause, eyeing the clock—“three minutes.”

“Did you bring me a donut?” he asks, eyeing the farmers’ market flowers.

“Pfft. I’m not a monster. It’s in my bag. Help yourself.”

Miller digs into the bakery bag while I unwrap my hodgepodge of flowers and start trimming ends before sticking them into a mason jar. Vintage, obviously.

“Who’re those for?” he interrogates while he inhales half a donut.

“They’re for me. You know I do this. I buy flowers because I like flowers. I don’t need a reason. We should all take the opportunity to celebrate joy, decisively, wherever we can, Miller.”

“Wow.”

I beam. That was really profound, wasn’t it?

“If you’re about to become a self-help guru, I quit.”

I huff and roll my eyes. Freaking teenagers.

A few minutes later the door jingles with a customer and for the next couple of hours I manage to put Warren out of my mind and focus. Fine, that’s a lie. But I’d say the breakdown was sixty percent focus and forty percent Warren. So not a total fail.

Even so, I’m totally flummoxed when he arrives.

“Miller, be good,” I whisper, even though no one else is in the store at the moment and Warren and Bethany are still outside. “We have customers. Or, er… sort of customers.”

Miller raises a brow like he’s forty-seven. “Who?”

“Guests,” I clarify. “We have guests.”

“And who—”

But then the door opens. Miller doesn’t even look surprised.

“Hey, Miller,” Warren says, waving to Miller before his eyes slide to me and he smiles.

How does he remember Miller’s name?

It’s probably a political superpower. I still call people I’ve known for years Hey, You.

“Miller, Audrey, this is my daughter, Bethany,” he says, officially introducing us to the very pretty teenage girl standing next to him.

I know because of Google that she’s fourteen. Most fourteen-year-olds I know are awkward, or perhaps I’m simply remembering myself as a fourteen-year-old, but Bethany’s got her grandma’s poise and her dad’s easy confidence. She gives me a smile and bounces over to meet me, giving Miller a quick once-over on her way.

“Dad said you’re an amazing designer,” she gushes, launching right in. “He said he’ll buy me a dress, but maybe I can help you make it? I