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Liz must’ve found the speaker, and she’s chosen to play, of all songs, a cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” the version from Crazy Rich Asians. A woman’s beautiful voice begins to sing the familiar lyrics, and I beg my body to relax, even as every nerve-ending is standing at attention.
Owen’s grip on my hand is firm, but loose, and we begin to sway, our bodies pulled together by an unexpected outside force. We settle into a gentle rhythm, and everything else fades away.
All at once, it’s like we’re the only two people in the world as the song builds and I begin to relax in his arms. I feel like I’m floating. Owen’s gaze takes my breath away.
Because he’s not looking at me like he usually does. He’s looking at me like he likes what he sees.
And he isn’t looking away.
His gaze pins me in place, conjuring feelings inside me that I buried a long time ago. His hand guides me in a slow circle, and I can’t help but get swept up in the romance of it. We’re held together by a single electric strand, and it sizzles and burns as the seconds tick by.
In this moment, what’s happening between us doesn’t feel like a put-on or a performance. It feels honest and raw and right.
He feels right.
Even though I know he is so, so wrong.
“Emmy—” His voice is low and deep.
“Perfect! We got it!” Liz claps her hands together.
The moment is severed in an abrupt snap.
I freeze as the lights change and the music cuts out and the bookstore is transformed from romantic fantasy destination to place of business once again.
I want to hit pause, then rewind. Back to the moment Owen said my name.
I try to catch my breath, wondering where it all went.
But he takes a step back and nods at me. “There, that wasn’t so bad, right?”
Not so bad? It was awesome! It was heaven! It was the stuff my dreams are made of!
But then I look around. I see the lights, the camera stands, the people off to the side.
Like the fictional characters I idolize, like the relationships I adore on the page. . .
None of it was real.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Owen
What was THAT?
The second Liz gives me the all clear, I mumble my good-byes and dart out of the bookshop as fast as I can.
There is no way slow dancing in a bookstore is supposed to have that kind of effect on me. My heart is pounding out of my chest. I can feel it in my ears.
Once Emmy settled in my arms, I was done for. I couldn’t look away. I don’t know if Liz and that photographer are really that good at their jobs or what, but standing there with her looking up at me, seeing straight through me, time stood still.
Nothing else really mattered.
It was like. . .magic.
The kind of magic that lady on the podcast talked about.
The kind of magic I don’t—or didn’t—believe in.
