The Next Mrs Russo - Jana Aston Page 0,68

through closets of old clothes. And scored me a new client.”

Warren looks at me for a long second before replying. “That’s really nothing,” he says softly.

“It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I reply, my own voice soft as well.

And I think… I think he’s going to kiss me again. So I ruin it like the life-ruiner I am.

“What’d you buy?” I ask him, snapping my seat belt into place and breaking the tension. Because kissing him would be a terrible idea. Right?

“An old book,” Warren replies, sliding the world’s most battered old copy of Peter Pan out of a paper bag and holding it up. “My brother and I both loved this book growing up. Figured it’d make a nice birthday gift.”

“Aww, Governor, I do believe underneath that demanding surly exterior you’re secretly a big softie.”

Warren side-eyes me as he starts the car and pulls away from the house. “Do not tell anyone. Or I’ll have you arrested.”

Been there, done that, my friend.

Which reminds me, again, that I need to end this. Whatever it is. Before I ruin his life or fall in love with him or both.

“So, where should we go to celebrate?” Warren asks, snapping me out of my thoughts and making me wonder if I missed something.

“We’re celebrating?”

“Your new design job for Mrs McGinn, and your venture into upcycled wedding gowns.”

Oh, well. Celebrating does sound fun. Way more fun than breaking up with Warren and slinking back to my own place. And really, we’re not even really dating, so breaking up with him feels super, super melodramatic, right?

Right.

I can always worry about the future later. What is time even? Irrelevant really. Except in sports. Time seems to be important in sports, even I know that.

Plus… the only things I’ve ever really celebrated are my birthday and the occasional holiday. But celebrating a great thrift haul? New jobs? Success? I’ve never done that. I’ve never given myself permission, always feeling like my successes weren’t worthy of celebration, I suppose.

Or maybe I’ve never had anyone who cared enough to want to celebrate with me.

But it feels nice. Warm.

And strangely date-like, no matter what I tell myself.

“I don’t really know what’s around here,” I finally say, for lack of a better answer.

“How do you feel about Italian food?” Warren asks. “I know a place that does a great Italian brunch.”

My eyes light up. Besides dessert, pasta and bread are my two favorite food groups. “Sweet Lord.” I make a big show of fanning myself with my hand. “‘Italian brunch’ might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Warren smiles with a small shake of his head, as if he’s not entirely sure how to react to my teasing. “Guess I should work on that,” he says, flicking on the turn signal before making a left out of the subdivision.

God help me if he gets any sexier.

The restaurant that Warren picks is called MezzaNotte, and it’s apparently the real fucking deal. I’m talking crisp white tablecloths and the best bread with olive oil I’ve ever tasted. They also have both a wine list and a dessert wine list. Which, to be honest, I hadn’t realized I was missing in my life until today.

And you know what they say? Carpe diem! Seize the day. Wait, I’m not sure that’s Italian. Well, whatever. You miss all the shots you don’t take and all the wine you don’t drink.

What? We’re celebrating. How many chances does a girl get to celebrate with the governor? A sexy one, not an old one in an ill-fitting suit.

Not many, I’d guess.

Plus, the way he keeps looking at me, combined with the fact that he actually seems interested in me and what I do for a living… it’s doing things to me. If this wasn’t a family restaurant, I might just drag him off to the bathroom right now.

But it’s more than that. Because this is definitely a date.

Right?

I half-expect him to try to pull a Lady and the Tramp move on me, that’s how date-y it is.

And if it is a real date, meaning a date where no one can see us so it wouldn’t make any sense to fake it, then does that mean that Warren cares about me?

My head’s spinning at the thought. Or maybe that’s the wine.

He sips his wine as he watches me over the glass.

“Thank you again,” I say. “For arranging today.”

“I enjoyed it,” he says, not breaking eye contact. “I like watching you in your element.”

“You’ve seen me