“I still feel like it’s a bit extreme.”

“How hard is it to derive a little rom-com inspiration? Come on, don’t wimp out on me. What else does 10 Things I Hate About You teach us?”

“That the bad guy always gets the girl,” I tell her. “Patrick Verona is a duplicitous jerk to Kat Stratford for far too long. And we wonder why toxic masculinity thrives. We romanticize it!”

She sighs. “You’re terrible today. Absolutely terrible.”

“Fine. You want ideas? I have an excellent paintball-adjacent activity. Jean-Claude was whining last month when Juliet dragged him to one of those painting classes specifically for couples. They’re built-in date nights.”

Bea opens her phone and sets up the camera mode. “I think that’s a little extreme.”

“Oh no, you don’t. If I have to suffer through a near reenactment of Little Shop of Horrors, then by God, you’re going to an amateur painting class for couples.”

Her jaw drops. “This is not that bad.”

“Neither is painting. You had your idea. This is mine.”

Bea glares at me. “Give me a minute. I’m thinking of a stunning reply.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Fine,” she moans. Stomping over to me, Bea leans in and snaps a selfie. My head’s cut out of the frame. “Dammit, James, be useful, will you?”

“I beg your pardon.” I frown down at her. “I get two weekdays off per month and I’m spending one of them slowly poaching in my skin while sneezing to death, thanks to you. Then you have the audacity to lecture me about usefulness. How is this useful?”

Bea shoves her phone into my hand, well on her way to shouting. “We’re being Instagrammable!”

A man gives us a concerned look and herds a group of children away.

“Conservatory.” Bea gestures around her. “Flowers. Romance. Chess and tea.”

“Chess and tea?” I ask. “When did you mention that?”

She scowls at me. “That was going to be your reward, if you were nice. You are not being nice, Jamie.”

Exhaling heavily, I fix my cuff sleeves until the buttons bisect my wrists and spin my watch until it’s in its rightful place. “I apologize.”

“Accepted. Now, take the damn selfie of us so I can Instagram it.”

Angling the phone, I snap a picture of us: Bea, her arms around my waist, eyes squinted in a forced but convincing happy grin. I’m peering down at her, a faint smile tipping my mouth. It’s actually a grimace.

Somehow, it all looks quite romantic. It makes me wonder how many photos of couples on social media are complete lies.

“Damn, James,” she says, examining the photo on her phone. “We’re both pissy as piss, and you still took a good picture.”

“It’s the staggering height. Great angle.”

Pocketing her phone, she peers up at me. “How tall are you?”