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

streaming down my cheeks by the end of my dinner, there was no one there to witness my eyes and nose dripping.

I took a quick selfie and examined the evidence. Yes, I was riding the hot mess express. I looked like I’d been drug backward through the kitchen. My curly dark hair was sticking up in odd places and frizzy from the humidity. I had a smudge of grease on my cheek. Any makeup had melted off long ago.

Without giving myself too much time to rethink, I navigated to Virginia Rothman’s last recipe post and replied with my selfie. Every post eased my insecurities more, though they still lingered in the background.

@VirginiaRothman you always make this look easy. I cry foul!

I set down my phone and worked on cleaning up my kitchen mess before relaxing with a new Nalini Singh book for the rest of the evening. The distraction kept my nerves about any replies to my post and my first dance class Saturday under control. My next achievement to unlock. The reminder email laid out basic studio etiquette and expectations. Class attendees were encouraged to avoid lotions or other things that might make our hands or body slippery. No problem. We were also discouraged from arriving late because, gulp, they locked the door.

I could only hope they locked the door to keep distractions out and not keep the participants in. I had a basic level of fitness from being on my feet so much at work and needing to lift and maneuver patients, but would it be enough to keep up?

My single attempt at a ballet class when I was eight didn’t seem adequate preparation to avoid humiliation now. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I’d quit after the first disastrous class. My love of bean burritos and pliés didn’t mix. I was too embarrassed to go back after adding my own percussion to the classical music.

Maybe I could hide in the back behind other students. Being overlooked was my superpower. I had a lifetime of practice at that.

That night I tossed and turned and eventually fell into a restless sleep. I should have realized I was dreaming, but for some reason spinning around a playground pole instead of one inside a dance studio seemed totally reasonable to dream-me. My breasts overflowed from my best lingerie—not the yoga clothing recommended by the class instructor. I kept tugging at the silky fabric, trying to get it to cover more and hide the flush of mortification washing over me. Kids pointed and stared as their mothers swooped in to cover their eyes. Eva shook her head in dismay from a bench, but her daughter seemed fascinated, blowing bubbles as she watched me.

I shuddered as I woke up. Only a dream. One that didn’t bode well for my plan to hide at the back of class. With luck, there would be no school children to horrify.

Chapter 5 - Chase

I rubbed my eyes as I stumbled into the kitchen to start coffee. It was full light outside, and I realized why as I glanced at the clock. Nearly noon. Look at me, living the glamorous writer’s life. Up until nearly four writing. That was my hot Friday night. The good news was that I’d finished my latest draft of a charity auction romance. I needed to let it soak for a few days before editing further, and in the meantime, I was ready to start my next project.

I stared at the stainless coffee pot, watching the steady drip of sustenance. Cup full of inky goodness, I flipped through my kitchen cabinets for something edible. I needed to get my shit together. I was competent enough to get groceries each week for my culinary adventures but couldn’t manage to have cereal on hand for everyday consumption. If only I were more organized, I’d cook every night. The task was a soothing change of pace when I could manage to pull my head out of work.

I sipped at my liquid breakfast as I scrolled through my social media feeds. The HEA conversation had once again been dredged up on my timeline, and I shook my head. Genre rules, folks. Happily-ever-after/for-now or it’s not a romance. I could never understand why so-called literary professionals criticized romance focusing on predictable endings. What was wrong with being happy? I didn’t get the desire to kill off main characters or abandon them in a bad place. The promise and premise of romance was love and readers deserved the serotonin hit. Romance readers flocked to the genre looking for that hope. Hope that someone could love us, flaws and all.

I laughed when I saw @TamraRN’s selfie in reply to my latest cooking post. She was cute. I could totally picture her having a calming bedside manner. Her curly hair was a riot around her head, falling gently to her shoulders, and it gave her an angelic air. She had gentle brown eyes and a full and pouty lower lip. It was a sexy lip. Soft. Pink. I could base a book on that lip alone. My regular readers would have heart failure if I delved that far into erotic romance, but it stirred all kinds of images. However, the dried tear tracks visible through her light makeup aroused different emotions. Suddenly, I didn’t feel alone in my ineptness at this whole adult thing. Why had cooking made her cry? Curiosity wouldn’t let go of me. I avoided comments as a rule, but my impulse to know more couldn’t be ignored. I went out of my way to make my readers happy. Seeing her in tears stirred my protective instincts.

@TamraRN What happened? Cooking shouldn’t lead to tears.

I didn’t have long to wait for my reply.

@VirginiaRothman Some horseradish is SO SPICY.

@TamraRN I don’t suppose you know a medical professional for that?

@VirginiaRothman that WAS my professional opinion.

Jackpot. I switched to direct messaging.

VirginiaRothman: So, are you a nurse then? Is that what the RN stands for?

TamraRN: Yes. Labor and delivery.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Any