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“Definitely the cover,” Susan says. “I know people say it doesn’t mean much, but they do judge the book by the cover. Before they even read the back copy.”
“I agree, I do the same,” Ollie says.
“How many books have you read exactly?” Artie asks.
“Hey, let me have this,” Ollie says, glaring at our brother.
“Who does the cover?” I ask.
“My production team, mostly,” Susan says. “Though I do sit in on some sessions.”
“So how does it usually happen?” I ask.
Susan walks me through the process. Artie pipes up. “I have an idea. Why don’t we get our camera and take some pictures? Pretend we’re shooting the cover for your book.”
Susan frowns. “Sure, but who’s going to be the main character?”
“You are,” I say.
She blushes. “I’m no model.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say. “You’re gorgeous. You’ll put most of them on the runway to shame.”
“Now you’re just straight-up lying,” she says. “Besides, we don’t even have props.”
“We don’t need to,” Ollie says. “Not when you’re going to be the best part of it.”
“Okay, fine,” she reluctantly agrees.
Ollie steps forward with a mischievous smile on his face. “I’ll get you some of my clothes.”
He walks upstairs and a few minutes later, returns with a plaid flannel shirt, sturdy jeans, and a worn-out pair of boots.
“Here, Susan,” he says, extending the clothes to her. “These are perfect for your lumberjack attire. I think they’ll fit you just right.”
A few moments later, Susan emerges from the bedroom, transformed into the image of a captivating lumberjack. She looks a bit funny in the flannel shirt and overalls. They’re at least five sizes too big for her.
“I feel like a baby,” she whines.
“You still manage to pull it off,” I say honestly.
“Fuck, you look so hot,” Ollie says. “I never liked baggy fit until now. You look so dang good in my clothes. I want to tear them right off you.”
She blows him a kiss. “Not yet.”
“Amazing,” Ollie says, shaking his head. I imagine I don’t look any different. No matter how many times we have Susan, it’s never enough.
I take a step back and retrieve a camera tripod from the corner of the room. Setting it up in a strategic position, I adjust the height and angle to capture the best shots.
“All right, Sooz. Give us a pose.”
“I can’t,” she says shyly.
“What do you mean you can’t?” I ask.
“I’m not good at that stuff,” Susan confesses. “I told you, I’m not a model.”
Susan, who’s usually so confident, isn’t capable? Impossible.
