Great. He’s definitely buying dinner.

“What exactly did you have in mind?”

Chapter Two

There’s no sign of a kidnapping van when I approach the meeting location. Or Mrs Bianchi. I only managed to get her out of my store with a quick negotiation and an agreement to meet at the gates across the street in an hour. In a stroke of complete idiocy I didn’t ask her where we were going, or, honestly, much of anything.

She made too good an offer for me to worry about pesky details like getting kidnapped or where exactly we’re headed today. I told Miller to call the police if he can’t find me tomorrow and he said sure thing and, well, that’s that.

And really, statistically the chances of this woman being part of a kidnapping ring are low. So it’s probably fine, but I’m definitely not getting into her car if it’s a white van with black windows.

I cross Eagle Street with the dress neatly hanging in a garment bag draped over my arm. I told Mrs Bianchi I’d bring it with me as I rushed her out the door while my cat slowly paced the shop behind us with his new buddy.

Alive and well, I should add. Gary dropped him as soon as I turned around and then held him down with a paw while staring at me with a look that quite honestly could only be described as disdain. I’m not sure if he’s mad about the accommodations we’re living in or he was simply questioning my ability to provide for him, but we’re going to have a talk about his attitude later.

Anyway, I’m at the gates. The front gates of the governor’s mansion, more exactly. You’d think the governor’s mansion would be someplace cool like the Hamptons, but nope, good old Albany. No foresight on the behalf of our Founders on that one. Niagara Falls would have been good, for tourism at least. Poughkeepsie would have been cool, just because it’s fun to say Poughkeepsie.

Why are state capitals always the most random, unlikely cities? Like the state capital of Illinois is Springfield. Dumb. Everyone who didn’t pass the state capital quiz in grade school thinks it’s in Chicago. Mostly because Chicago is the only city anyone’s ever heard of in Illinois, but still. That entire quiz is one big trick question, if you ask me. How is the state capital of California not Los Angeles? Ridiculous. St Augustine, Florida, is the oldest city in America but sure, let’s confuse grade schoolers forever by putting the capital of Florida in Tallahassee. Is that even a real place? There’s Miami, there’s Disney World, there’s St Augustine and a bunch of beaches and then there’s… Tallahassee.

I bounce my foot on the pavement.

I’m probably a minute or two early since I allotted five minutes to get here when it’s all of a thirty-second walk. I’d be fine with Mrs Bianchi bailing—getting stood up by someone’s mother for a setup won’t even make the shortlist of crappiest dates I’ve had in my lifetime. That’d be fine. Bailing on paying for this dress? Not fine. Plus, we came to an agreement a little more elaborate than this dress. So here I am, prostituting myself for fashion.

Not literally, of course. I mean it wasn’t entirely obvious but I clarified. No kissing required.

This poor guy, am I right? Needs his mom to set him up on a non-kissing date. He must be tragically unattractive or socially awkward. Mrs Bianchi swore he doesn’t live in her basement though. Promised he has a job and his own place. Though she did say she stays with him when she’s in town, but made sure to stress she lives full-time in Manhattan and wouldn’t be in our way.

Ha.

While I wait I try to picture what I’m getting into. My intuition is envisioning a man somewhere between twenty-five and forty-five who works full time at a respectable job like accounting or something in technology, but he’s definitely not the boss. Maybe has a title like senior project coordinator. Does not date. Arrives home from work promptly at five-fourteen every evening, then plays video games online till eleven while eating a microwaved Hot Pocket.

Concerned mother of said man-child drives up to Albany once a month under the guise of a visit, but in reality she comes up to ensure his sheets are washed, the bathroom cleaned, the pantry stocked and to inquire as to why he hasn’t found a nice girl yet.

Ugh, whatever. Non-kissing date. I can deal.

There’s a tour group gathered for the 2pm tour. There are four tours daily, which I know because I can see them gathering at this spot from my window and also because I looked it up. I haven’t taken the tour myself because I’m not a nerd. Who wants to tour a governor’s mansion? Boring! It’s probably just filled with old stuff. And the governor.

Actually, that’s a lie.

It’s a lie because I love old stuff and also because I have a weird crush on the governor of New York. So taking a tour of his house feels like it’d be crossing a line into stalker town.

I might do it anyway. But you have to schedule a tour and I’m very busy being broke and working on my business so I haven’t gotten around to it yet.

And yeah, yeah, I know governors aren’t generally crush-worthy, but they’re usually old white men. Governor Russo is young. Youngish, anyway. And Italian. And hot. And I have a thing for him. Sue me.

You can’t help who you love.

You also can’t help who you want to make out with long enough to find out if the big dick energy he exudes is warranted, am I right?

Anyway.

Where the heck is Mrs Bianchi? A glance at my phone tells me it’s one minute past two, so where—

“Audrey!”

Mrs Bianchi is standing directly in front of me, a huge smile on her face. Okay, weird. Where did she even come from? I swear I’m losing it or she’s some kind of shapeshifter. I hope it’s the latter, but before I can devote too much time to figuring it out she’s wrapped an arm around my back like we’re old friends and is guiding me through the gates.

Wait.

“Are we going on the tour?” God, this lady is weird. The thing is, I really like her and my intuition tells me she’s good people. But my intuition has been known to be a raging idiot so I can’t be faulted for questioning it. Myself. Whatever.

“Hmm?” She tilts her head, a look of confusion crossing her face.

“Why are we going inside? Does your son work here?” I glance at the tour guide, but he’s older than Mrs Bianchi so I don’t think that’s her son. Also… he’s already twenty feet away leading the tour group in the opposite direction. I slow my steps to a near halt, forcing her to slow as well. “Shouldn’t we stay with the group?”

Okay, now I’m a little nervous. I take a quick visual of the area, wondering why security hasn’t already corralled us with some stern looks and walkie-talkies. I was prepared to be kidnapped this afternoon. I was not prepared to be arrested for breaking and entering the governor’s mansion. And… now the group is gone. I can’t even see them anymore. We have officially gone rogue.

And I absolutely cannot afford to get arrested. It’s really, really expensive.

“Oh.” She pauses. “Did we not cover that?”

“Cover what?” I peer over her shoulder while simultaneously trying to get her to turn around. Maybe we can catch up with the others. They can’t have gone that far.

And yet we’re now at a side door on the huge wrap-around front porch and she’s reaching for the door handle.