From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 32

**Dreams Folding Into Broken Time**
**Chapter 32**

I leaned down, my breath warm against her ear as I whispered, “Play nice.”

A sly smirk danced across her lips. “No promises.”

“Wait! Hold up, you guys!”

Lizzie came barreling down the stairs, practically soaring as she waved her phone in the air like a triumphant flag. Her hair was hastily gathered into a bun, and she was clad in her bright yellow SpongeBob pajamas, a sight that made me chuckle despite the urgency of the moment.

“Lizzie, be careful!” Savannah called out, her voice a mix of concern and annoyance.

Lizzie reached us, her breath coming in quick bursts, hands resting on her knees as she bent over slightly, trying to catch her breath. “I know, I know. I just need a picture from you both!” She raised a finger, her expression earnest. “Just one.”

“Why?” Chloe asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Oh, it’s not you guys,” Lizzie clarified, waving her hand dismissively towards Dean and Chloe. “I’m talking about them.” She pointed directly at Savannah and me, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Why?” Savannah echoed, her curiosity piqued.

“Well, your pool picture kind of blew up online after I shared it with a killer hashtag. Now, everyone’s buzzing about the hot couple,” Lizzie explained, her tone matter-of-fact as if we were supposed to be completely on board with her plan.

“So you mean we’re what? Internet famous?” Savannah asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

Chloe scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, sis. You? Famous?” She laughed heartily, glancing at Dean. “Pinch me, Dean. What a wild dream you have.”

Lizzie stepped forward, a hint of seriousness in her demeanor. “Actually, they are. Sort of.”

“Oh please. Let me be the judge of that,” Chloe said, her tone teasing. “Just take the photo and let’s get moving. It’s almost fun time.”

Dean and Chloe exchanged glances, their smiles wicked and conspiratorial. Whatever mischief these two had concocted, I could sense it wouldn’t end well.

“Come on,” I urged Savannah, guiding her toward the spot where Lizzie had indicated—the area beside the fireplace, a cozy nook that felt oddly intimate.

We struck a few poses as directed, Lizzie snapping away with her phone, the weasel and the snake whispering conspiratorially in the corner, plotting who knows what.

“Can I get a kiss?” Lizzie requested, squinting into her phone as if she were a photographer at a fashion shoot.

“Sure,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

“What about my lipstick?” she countered, feigning indignation.

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