My mom and William were still studying him, much like hungry cats in cartoons eye plump birds whistling on a swing.
“Fine, it was two,” Ambrose added. “I’m sorry! I was hungry. Also—”
“This isn’t about doughnuts,” my mother told him. She looked at me again. “It’s about helping out when the company is in a serious bind.”
“Oh.” Ambrose exhaled. “Well, sure. What do you need?”
“See?” she said, pointing at him. “Now that’s loyalty.”
“I am not going to pretend to be engaged to Ambrose!” I said.
“Engaged?” He grinned at me. “Oh, this should be fun.”
This was not the word in my head when, half an hour later, I left the conference room with my nails still wet from a rush manicure from Liza, a nail tech from the nearby salon whom my mother coaxed over with a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Because this was supposed to be shots of a casual client meeting, I’d kept on the sundress I’d worn to work that day. As I walked toward Ambrose and the photographer, now set up in the reception area, I saw he had on a new, crisp shirt. Also, he was smiling at me in a way that made it clear he still thought this was hilarious.
“Now, I think first we’ll just do some shots of you flipping through the books of other weddings,” the photographersaid, gesturing for me to sit down on one of the chaises. “Because we’re not doing faces, I’ll blur your profiles in editing, focusing more on your hands, together, on the pages.”
Ambrose patted the seat beside him. “Come on, honey. Time for our close-up.”
I looked at my mother, who held up ten fingers, symbolizing the hundred bucks I’d been promised for going through with this. It was not enough. Still, I sat down.
“Okay,” the photographer said, squatting down and lifting the camera. “Now, let’s have the groom open the book and hold it in his lap. Louna, lean into him and point to something on the page.”
“Should we talk motivation?” Ambrose said to me. “Want to develop our backstory? How long we’ve been together, all that?”
“No,” I said flatly, jabbing a finger at a picture of a cake, flowers trailing off it.
“I think,” he continued, ignoring me, “that we met cute. Like, you dropped a kitten, and I picked it up for you.”
“Why would I drop a kitten?”
“Well, clearly, it was an accident,” he replied, sliding his other arm around me. I told myself not to stiffen, then glared at William, who had the nerve to laugh out loud. “Your hair smells good, by the way. Is that vanilla?”
I didn’t respond to this. The photographer, now shooting, said, “Louna, can you relax your mouth? You look kind of angry.”
“Imagine that,” I said under my breath.
From the albums, we moved on to posing with the cakeWilliam had bought just for the shoot, a grocery store variety he’d carefully decorated with fresh flowers. The photographer put us beside it, then arranged our hands—Ambrose’s above, mine below—on a silver cake cutter.
“Now, just put it on the edge,” she called out, checking her light meter. “And, Ambrose, shift your hand so we can see the ring on Louna’s finger a bit better. It’s just so pretty!”
“Three months’ salary,” he told her, insisting, still, on being in character. “But my baby deserved a rock!”
My mom, who was the actual owner of this ring, snorted. William said, “You guys actually look really cute together, if you don’t mind me saying.”
I was about to tell him that, in fact, I did, when Ambrose moved in closer behind me, his mouth right at my ear. “FYI, your tag is sticking out. Let me get it. It’s what a fiancé would do.”
A second later, I felt his fingers on the small of my back, smoothing down the fabric of my dress there. And the weirdest, craziest thing happened: I felt something. That unmistakable, sudden rush of feeling when your body responds to a touch in that certain, specific way. As I blinked, trying to process this, I realized that despite my reluctance, I hadn’t stiffened even once in all the times he’d touched me so far. So weird.
“Great,” the photographer called out, clicking away. “Now, Louna, turn your head and look up at Ambrose. Again, I’ll blur your features. But I love this staging.”
I swallowed—calm down, Barrett—then did as I was told, turning toward him. With one of his hands over mine,the other beside me against the table, it was almost like easing into an embrace, and I was surprised, again, by how natural it felt. No elbows or awkwardness; I just fit there.
“What?” Ambrose said, looking down at me.
“Nothing,” I replied, as the photographer moved in closer, getting even more of us together. It seemed like she shot forever, us frozen in that spot. Even so, when we broke apart, the space between us felt huge, much bigger than it was. As if somehowitwas the odd thing now.
“Okay,” Jilly said, extracting a lock of her hair from Bean’s sticky grip. “Tell me againexactlywhat you said to the Lumberjack.”
