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“Okay, you two,” Liz turns to us. “Why don’t you stand right in between—” she looks at the shelves— “thrillers and romance.”
Thrilling romance. Just like Texas Hold Me, the enemies to lovers trope set in the 1870’s.
The only problem is that Owen isn’t the outlaw with the heart of gold and I’m not the Mayor of Dry Bluff’s upstart daughter.
Once we’re in the aisle, I realize these shelves are very close together. Too close. Someone should fix that immediately. Who owns this place, anyway?
I stand so close to the thriller section I might as well be the girl loosely draped on one of these Harlan Coben novel covers. Owen seems to be doing the same on the opposite side.
And it isn’t hard to picture him as a Jane Austen hero.
Liz takes one look at us and laughs. “Okay, this is not going to cut it, kids.”
I look at her, feigning innocence as if I have no idea why hugging my side of the aisle isn’t going to give them the vibe they’re going for.
“He saved your life,” she says, emphatically. “We all saw the way he carried you out of the house, right? We’re trying to give people the fantasy of, you know, what happens next.”
“What happens next?” I ask, because I really want to know.
“Yes!” she says, like I’ve just gotten the correct answer on a game show. “Maybe he’s your knight in shining armor! Maybe you start a casual friendship that leads to more, who knows? Give people a hint of romance! Can we try that?”
No response.
“Great,” she says, eyes wide again. She’s starting to look panicked. She turns to Godiva. “How about you try?”
“Maybe let’s just take a few test shots to check the lighting,” she says. Oh. She’s British. Her accent is warm and wonderful. I wish I had an accent.
The momentary distraction calms me for a split second, and then I realize I have to actually do what they’re asking.
Owen and I stand opposite each other like two people trying to win an award for best impression of a statue.
Godiva snaps a few shots, then checks the back of the camera.
“Why don’t we try one standing just a little bit closer?” Liz asks.
We inch slightly closer together, but barely change the way we’re standing. We’re two eighth graders at their very first dance. His tie is too tight and my corsage is about to draw blood.
“Relax, you two,” Liz says. “This is supposed to be fun.”
We look at one another, and we must have the same expression on our faces, because we both raise our eyebrows simultaneously, then frown, then smile, then relax into a bit of laughter.
“There! See? Just like that!” Godiva snaps a few rapid shots.
Liz snaps her fingers. “Hey! Maybe that’s where we go with this, more candid, more natural, less staged?”
Owen loosens his shoulders to be less tense. “Yeah, posing us maybe isn’t the best idea.”
I agree. “It’s not like I’m some Harlequin cover model. What, do you want me to. . .” I raise one arm and slide a palm down the books, comically popping a hip.
Click, click-click.
Owen chuckles. Wow, his smile.
Click-click.
“Take this one, for instance. . .” I grab a book titled The Rake’s Road to Ruin, a perfectly trashy romance, where the lady’s dress covers up half the front cover.
Owen makes a face. “There’s no way those people are real. How do you even get in that position and not get a cramp?”
