I cut my literary teeth on the Little Mister and Little Miss books, and by the fourth grade, I had a book-a-week habit. Nancy Drew, Sweet Valley Twins, the Babysitter’s Club, Little House on the Prairie—they all fed my desire to consume stories. But in elementary school, you don’t always get to choose what you read. After the devastating one-two punch of Where the Red Fern Grows and Bridge to Terebithia in the fifth grade, I vowed I would never again allow myself to become emotionally invested in a character who meets a tragic end.

Enter my grandmother, a school-bus-driving Methodist minister’s wife. And her shelf full of Harlequin romances. For every Of Mice and Men or The Plague forced on me by heartless English teachers, I inhaled five or six love stories, their guaranteed HEAs a balm to my existentialism-scarred soul. When I decided to write (because I had these scenes and these characters swimming around in my head), it felt only natural to turn to contemporary romance. My one goal is to provide the same kind of light-hearted escape for others.