At age fourteen, my mom introduced me to romance books. On
our summer breaks, she took us to the library. Our reads had to last two weeks
and then she would take us back. I was such a fast reader. I read mine,
sometimes twice, and sometimes, my sisters’ books too.
One day, I was totally bored. Nothing new to read. So I
asked Mom if we could go to the library, a day off from our regular schedule.
She firmed her lips and gave me an interesting look. Then she reached for her
handbag, stashed on a shelf in a built-in bookcase. She pushed a small
paperback in my hands and said, “Read this.”
On the front was a picture of a couple, a dark-headed girl
turned away from a man with brown hair wearing a suit. The author’s name was Emilie
Loring. I flipped the book over and read the back cover blurb. Hmmm, I thought,
and went to my room where I plopped on my bed and began.
