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I giggle. “You have no idea how ridiculously awesome some of these book covers are.”
Liz interjects, “Why don’t you face each other?”
We are still chuckling, and without thinking, we turn. I still have the book in my hand.
“Now, take her in your arms, like you’re going to slow dance.”
“Slow dance?” Owen asks.
I quirk a brow. “What, you’ve never slow danced with an overly made-up woman between shelves of romance novels in a bookstore before?”
“Not lately,” he chuckles. “Doesn’t seem like something real people do.”
“Oh, no,” I gasp.
“What?”
“Don’t tell me you’re a cynic,” I say.
He gives me a look like he knows I know the answer to that question because I do. Owen is my romance opposite.
Click-click, click.
“Maybe you should work on that,” I say, a tease in my tone. “Cynicism is the greatest barrier to love, you know.”
He pauses.
“What did you say?” His brow furrows.
“It’s a quote,” I tell him.
“Yeah, Bell Hooks.”
Now my brow furrows. “You know Bell Hooks?”
“Not personally,” he quips.
I shake my head. “Funny.”
“This doesn’t look like slow dancing!” Liz calls from behind Godiva.
Owen looks at me, a questioning look on his face.
I make a face back, because the mood is still light, and affecting a faux Southern accent, I fan myself, and say, “Why, Mistah Larr-a-bee, I would be de-lah-ted!”
When I get nervous, I get weird. It’s kind of my thing. But I’m not prepared for how the mood immediately changes.
I’m still holding the book in my left hand, the side that’s facing Godiva, clicking away, taking pictures and making comments to herself in that lovely accent. I glance up, and without breaking eye contact, Owen slips his right hand under and around on the small of my back and pulls me toward him.
I instinctively grab around his neck with my right hand, look up into his eyes, his intense eyes, and I feel like I’m floating, or dreaming, or both. I let my other hand—and the book—slowly lower. Just before I let the book drop to the floor. . .
Click!
. . .and it hits the ground.
He reaches down and off to the side, and I take my hand from around his neck. His other hand is still firmly pressing against the small of my back. I reach up and touch his shoulder, completely lost in his eyes. I dare not look away, because if I do, I might actually wake up from this dream.
I’m aware of the sound of a soft guitar echoing through the speakers as he pulls me a little closer.
