Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

of conflict. If I couldn’t tell my closest friends about my writing, then I sure as hell wasn’t exposing myself to a bunch of strangers.

My latest turkey burger recipe had seemed safe, and it had received several comments and likes, including one from @TamraRN who had made the same dish. It was nice to know I had a menu buddy this week, and her burger was a definite upgrade from the sad grilled cheese she posted for her birthday. Something about her first post had called to the loner in me. I couldn’t resist responding in solidarity.

The more I thought about @TamraRN, I wondered if she really was a nurse and if so, would she be up for helping me with research for my next book. Her profile didn’t reveal much, other than a love of romance. I’d been playing with an idea for a surprise baby plot involving a nurse and a bartender. Then again, it might morph into another friends-to-lovers plot if I wanted to avoid angering my mother. As she often liked to remind me, she didn’t spend thirty years as a high school health teacher to have me playing fast and loose with birth control, even in fiction.

Reaching out to Tamra for help felt like a huge risk. So much could go wrong. But good research was integral to my work, and Tamra’s posts struck a kindred chord in me. It wasn’t that long ago that I subsisted on grilled cheese and peanut butter sandwiches. Contacting her might be the spark I need to bring my next book to life.

Chapter 4 - Tamra

My feet ached with every step by the time my shift ended on Thursday. But Virginia did her recipe posts on Thursday or Friday, and I was determined to try cooking her dish for myself if it looked interesting. Gina had encouraged me to keep pushing myself, and cooking gave me an excuse to comment on Virginia’s posts and put myself out there more. If putting myself out there via virtual correspondence from the safety of my phone at home counted. I was proud of my progress, even if goals number two and three were still more ideas than accomplishments.

I trudged toward my townhome and opened my bag by the light of the front door to dig for my keys.

“Hey.”

My heart took off. I couldn’t contain my yelp, but at least I didn’t drop my bag.

“Eva. You scared me.”

The other woman emerged from the shadows next door. I didn’t think it was possible for her to look worse than before, but dark circles around her eyes gave her a raccoon-ish appearance. I held back the “you look terrible” and substituted it for something less likely to have her hissing and backing away from me.

“Sorry. Just grabbing a minute of quiet,” she said.

“How are you?”

She smiled ruefully. “Ready to admit that Maddy is at least half-monster.”

“I’ve heard it gets better,” I said.

She shrugged and hugged her robe to her shoulders. “When is that, exactly?”

“Ah, about eighteen years, I think?”

“Joy. Anyone ever tell you you’re a ray of sunshine?”

I scratched my head. “More like they tell me I’m top-shelf strange.”

She laughed and wished me a good night as I pushed open the door to my place. I toed off my shoes and crashed on the couch. That could have gone better. I stared at the ceiling. It also could have gone worse. She hadn’t denied I was strange. Then again, Eva lurking in the dark like a vampire didn’t scream normal. Perhaps she was a better fit for my brand of odd than I realized.

I looked around my living room, trying to imagine inviting Eva in for a drink. It was nothing spectacular, mostly Ikea furniture and a few houseplants I tried not to kill too quickly. Maybe that would be my next self-improvement venture, redecorating my apartment. Considering I’d lived there for almost eight years, it should have more personality, but there was nothing on the walls. As a metaphor for my life, it wasn’t half-bad. As for décor, it meant I wasn’t inviting Eva inside anytime soon. Then again, maybe asking her for decorating advice could be my next goal. A source of common ground and a solid reason to spend more time together outside of neighborly ‘hellos.’

I picked up my phone from the coffee table. I’d missed a text after work from Gina.

Gina: Stay classy, sassy, and a bit badassy.

Someone needed to revoke her Pinterest privileges. But not me. Her daily quotes may not be changing my life, but they made me smile.

Virginia Rothman had posted another amazing-looking recipe. This week’s offering was steak sandwiches with horseradish mayo, blue cheese, and caramelized onions in hoagie rolls.

My stomach growled. My salad from lunch was a sad memory by comparison. I clicked to the recipe and noted the ingredients I didn’t have, then set up a grocery delivery for the following day. The loner in me rejoiced. Cooking virtually alongside Virginia felt like a level of friendship I could manage. I didn’t even have to leave the house to have everything ready for tomorrow’s culinary adventure. Cooking was badassy, right? I didn’t need to see Gina’s eyeroll to know she’d disagree.

FRIDAY’S MEAL PUT THE capital F in Failure. Virginia’s posts looked effortless and delicious, and I ... I was not that skilled. “Ya basic,” I muttered to myself as I viewed the results of the last hour in the kitchen.

My onions were less caramelized and more burnt. I tried to reason that the char would add to the flavor, but my optimistic side wasn’t quite buying it. The steak was overcooked and tough. And lastly, the horseradish. Oh, the horseradish. Clear sinuses were my proud reward for the potency of my horseradish cream. Not all horseradish was created equal, or at least that’s what my dripping sinuses screamed.

After a quick photo of my dinner fail, I womanfully took another bite. I was stronger than the horseradish. I was. It wouldn’t defeat me. If tears were