A/N: Late last year I had a conversation with a colleague and friedd of mine about Fabio - you know, the romance novel cover guy that used to be on every cover? - and this weird and wacky idea formed in my head. I wrote a chapter and a half, then got stuck, laying it aside and just got inspired again. This will be probably five chapters max. And yes, I know this is very un-Ranger. That's why it's called AU. Sue me! LOL

If you ever needed one important piece of advice, let it be this one:

When your best friend comes running all excited and ecstatic your way, waving papers and shouting your name over and over again as if you didn't see her right away, run away. Run as far away and as fast as you can.

I didn't and learned the hard way that it would have been in my best interest to do so.

"You won, you won," Mary Lou announced excitedly over and over again, confusing me, since I had no idea what she was talking about. Other than that, I had won.

"Won what?" I asked and saw her waving a piece of paper over and over again in front of me.

"Promise you won't hate me?" she all of a sudden asked, which was really not the best of starts when thinking about possible ideas in regard to what I had won. I was almost certain it wasn't the lottery. Mainly because I didn't play. Same could be said about any sorts of bets – whether sports or any other kind. So, options were limited. And her asking me to not hate her was not boding too well.

"I won't promise such a thing," I replied suspiciously. What had my best friend done? And why was I involved? Mary Lou looked slightly thoughtful for a second, almost as if thinking about whether she really wanted to tell me now or not. Another clue than to me probably not really liking what she was about to tell me. Mary Lou had never been worried about telling me anything. Everything was usually fair game, and she never had to actually worry my wrath. So, her looking at me worried for the first time really, was limiting options even more.

It seemed like after a few moments she made up her mind to still tell me what was going on since she went all of a sudden off in a whirlwind of explaining and talking faster than I had ever heard her talk. At some point, it was pretty hard for me to follow her words, as quickly as they came from her lips.

"Remember a few weeks ago? When you were drowning yourself in self-pity after your divorce from Morelli had been finalized and you called me over to kill a bottle of tequila and other spirits? And there was this Netflix documentary playing in the background? The one that was talking about romance novels and their effect on society, or rather women's standards, when it comes to relationships. Or rather, their expectations? I can't really remember which was which, but aaaaaanyway… and they talked with some of these authors and then also with that guy who is like pictured on a quadrillion romance novel covers? And how he was hot? Which I guess is to be expected when you are… like… Mr. Romance Novel. Do you remember?" she asked, and I simply replied with a no, since… honestly, I really couldn't remember much of that night. Probably due to Mr. Tequila and his friends Gin and Vodka. Also, it wasn't a night worth remembering. As Mary Lou had mentioned, my divorce with Joseph Morelli had been finalized that day. We had been married for an astonishing amount of 105 days. After having been dating for four years and being engaged for another two. The irony of this was how we managed to stay together for six years and then didn't manage to make it to even six months of being married. The reason for our sudden end was… depending on who you asked. The fact that I had caught Morelli screwing the hell out of Joyce Barnhardt on our dinner table was certainly not helpful. Fun fact, the exact same thing – as in my husband, Joyce Barnhard and a dining room table – happened with my previous husband Dickie Orr. I tried not taking the blame in some way, seeing as chances seemed rather unlikely for the exact same thing happening twice.

Mary Lou didn't seem to be discouraged by my negative reply regarding that night and my memories and just went on as if I had confirmed vivid memory recollection. Or hadn't heard her question to begin with.

"Anyway, I went and googled that guy. You know the romance cover go-to guy that appeared on every romance novel published in the past 100 years or so."

For a second, I wondered whether I should state the fact that the past 100 years or so seemed highly unlikely since that would make him either the oldest model in the world and also probably the youngest, seeing he would have had to start with birth. Also, from what I can remember and the few covers I had actually come across in my 35 years on this earth, he didn't seem that old. But before I could actually comment on that fact, my best friend was already twenty sentences in the future and I had actual issues catching up with her.

"So I entered you," was the next thing after her 100 year comment I understood again.

"Entered me where?" I asked and judging by our conversation up until now, I didn't think I'd like her answer much. Turns out I was about to be right.

"Into the contest," she replied, seeming confused at my question. I refrained from asking about the contest and hoped my facial expressions did the talking. As in 'what the hell are you talking about?'

Mary Lou seemed to skip back a few sentences to a point where I actually would understand what she was talking about once more and as it turns out, I was so not liking it. And her initial request for my promise to not hate her wasn't even that unlikely anymore.

"It turns out that guy is actual local and there was this contest for a chance to win a photoshoot. A photoshoot for a romance novel cover he would appear on as well. So, you'd be his love interest in the picture."

"Please tell me you did not do what I think you did," I almost begged while simultaneously knowing my request would be fruitless. Because why else would we be having this conversation? Certainly not because Mary Lou had entered her own name into that contest.

Mary Lou just smiled widely at me, started all of a sudden clapping excitedly while announcing, "You'll be on the next big romance novel!"

Oh dear god!

Post-AN: Obviously, there is no such Netflix documentary as mentioned by Mary Lou. I'm pretty certain there's also no such study. BUT in psychology there's something called Prince Charming syndrome, a thought that can't solely be blamed on too many romance novels or romcoms.