Sylvia lowered the phone and looked at him again.
"No," she said decisively. "This still looks too composed."
Nero, sprawled across half her couch like royal trouble in civilian territory, lifted a brow. "Too composed."
"Yes. It looks like two people with excellent posture made a responsible decision. That is not the tone we want."
"And what tone do we want?"
Sylvia gestured vaguely between them. "Something believable. Something that says this was unplanned, mildly chaotic, and comfortable enough to be annoying."
Nero considered that.
Then, before she could ask what that expression meant, he reached out.
Sylvia made a startled sound as one large hand caught her wrist and the other steadied her by the waist, and in one smooth movement Nero dragged her down onto the couch and into his arms with the effortless confidence of a man who could probably bench-press furniture for leisure.
She landed sideways across his lap.
The phone nearly slipped from her hand.
"Oh my God—"
