“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.
