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The thing is, my crush on the governor is of the normal variety. Meaning I haven’t stalked him on the internet. Much. Just the regular run-of-the-mill socially acceptable kind of stalking. So I don’t know a whole lot about him, like what his mother looks like. Or that her last name is Bianchi, not Russo.
That information would have been way more helpful than knowing what his dog looks like. Duke. I know what Duke looks like because I’ve scrolled the governor’s Instagram in a totally normal, non-creepy way and there’s a bunch of pictures of Duke between the artfully curated posts about political issues and shots of the governor signing legislative bills into law.
Yeah, he probably doesn’t post any of that himself now that I think about it. Duke is really, really cute though. Shepherd-husky mix, if you’re curious. He’s the kind of dog who looks like he could, in the case of an emergency, single-handedly paw the fire alarm, evacuate an entire building and grab a blanket on the way out the door to keep everyone warm while waiting on help to arrive. He came from a rescue in Great Neck and I’m a little smitten.
I should have dedicated a few of those internet searches to his mother.
In any case, this is not going to work.
Mrs Bianchi’s intuition is way, way off.
Which I try to explain to her as I edge my way back towards the door, but Mrs Bianchi? Not much of a listener, because she just continues to steer me down the hallway while trying to sell me on Warren.
Mothers, am I right?
“Listen, I know he seems a little cold,” Mrs Bianchi continues as we enter into a hideously decorated parlor of some kind. “Once he warms up though, he’s a gem.”
It’s not that. I honestly find the stern demeanor really sexy. The bossy, take-responsibility vibe really does it for me.
But in any case, this cannot be happening.
These are… not my people. I’m a clothing designer. Not a famous one, a struggling one. I’m not even sure I’m a designer, more of a re-designer. Or a flipper. My ex hated it. Called it a hobby, not a career. It’s hardly like you’re a doctor, Audrey. Or even something passable like a dentist.
Jackass.
But jackass not withstanding, the idea of this match is beyond ridiculous. Sure, his mom isn’t wrong in that dating must be impractical for a single politician. The internet is definitely out. There is no swiping up, down, left or right for Warren Russo.
Dating a co-worker would be impossible because he’s the boss. He cannot hook up with an intern. He can’t even hook up with his chief of staff without it potentially turning into a political hot potato.
But surely his mother knows a nice first-grade teacher she could set him up with? You know, a nice girl whose father runs a pharmaceutical company. Or actually, scratch the mom bit. Surely he has a freaking friend who knows someone?
I’m glancing towards the doorway and formulating an escape speech when something wet nudges the palm of my hand.
“Oh, it’s Duke!” I gasp in delight as I glance down to find the source nudging my hand, tail wagging.
I am a sucker for a dog. Any dog. Like, if you have a dog I want to pet it. Every time. No exceptions. If Mrs Bianchi had shown up in a van with tinted windows filled with puppies I’d have hopped right in.
Right after I pet Duke, I am outta here.
“He sheds,” Mrs Bianchi mentions, sounding less than excited.
“I don’t care!” I’m already on my knees scratching Duke behind his ears. And not to brag, but Duke is into me. He’s dropped to the floor and rolled over, exposing his belly to me with a look of pure joy on his face as I coo about what a good boy he is, when a pair of black-tipped, perfectly shined wingtips enters my field of vision.
Oh, fuckity fuck.
Sure, I may have imagined a few kinky scenarios that involved me on my knees in front of the governor but trust me, none of them involved his dog. Or his mother.
My heart is racing and I can feel a blush covering my cheeks as I raise my head to confirm that the perfectly polished shoes do indeed belong to Warren Russo. The thing is, crushes are not meant to be met in the real world. He’s just a fictional fantasy. And even fictionally we didn’t have much in common other than really amazing sex.
It’s him.
I scramble to my feet as a stray dog hair floats in the air between us. At my feet Duke grunts, disgruntled with the end of his tummy rub.
“Warren, this is Audrey Gibson,” Mrs Bianchi is telling him as I tuck a loose lock of my own hair behind my ear, and then he’s shaking my hand.
