The Next Mrs Russo by Aston Jana & Aston Jana

Author:Aston, Jana & Aston, Jana
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rutherford Press
Published: 2021-06-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

I spend the first hour after my pet psychic appointment stewing. Luckily, I have to go to work, so at least I’m able to take some of this energy and put it into ripping seams.

I’m indecisive. According to Gary. A cat. Which is the most ridiculous thing ever to be said by a cat about a person.

I knew cats were judgmental, but I never expected them to pass said judgment through a pet psychic and onto the person who feeds and houses them. The person who, for the record, decisively picked them out at the shelter.

So ungrateful.

Gary, for his part, was lounging near the dog door when I left. The dog door that I locked, thank you very much. He gave me a smug look, like he knows something I don’t know about how to operate the dog door, but he doesn’t have opposable thumbs, so whatever, joke’s on him. And I only gave him one kiss goodbye as opposed to the usual five or six. Which… is probably more of a punishment for me than him, so also whatever. If he’s going to critique me, I have a right to reserve my affection for those who deserve it.

Like Duke, for example. Duke adores me. He follows me around whenever he can, licking my hand when I’m reading, nuzzling me with his head. Pure and complete adoration, which is exactly what a person should expect from a pet.

If only Gary would take notes.

“You okay, boss? You’re a little… twitchy.”

I glare at Miller. He’s being really helpful today, hanging up new pieces, steaming out the wrinkles, and moving our chairs around. I picked the chairs up at an estate sale with a few vintage Versace pieces. They’re just retro enough to be trendy again, and they fit in perfectly with my vibe. We’ve made a little sitting area next to the fitting room for people to comfortably sit while they’re waiting for their friends or mothers or daughters or whomever to try on dresses. It looks way better than the random dining room chair that I was using before.

“I am not twitchy,” I insist. “I am focused. I have a lot of energy, you know. Artists have a lot of energy.”

“So you’re nervous,” Miller replies, unimpressed with my claims of productive energy. “Are you nervous about your governor boyfriend?”

I glare at him again. Clearly the first glare didn’t take. Well, that and the fact that absolutely no one is afraid of my glares. Ineffective on both cats and teenagers. They were also ineffective on creeps on the subway when I was in the city, come to think of it.

Also useless on rude salespeople.

Maybe I should YouTube glaring techniques.

Ugh. My to-do list is never done.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, which even to me sounds a bit whiny in tone. “It’s a fake relationship.”

“Right, right,” Miller easily agrees. “A fake boyfriend who you live with. In his real house. Also known as the governor’s mansion.”

“Because of my plumbing issues,” I remind him.

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