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Chapter One
Emmy
I have a secret.
Not the kind of secret that could land me ten to fifteen years in prison, or one that Dr. Phil would announce if my parents revealed that they found me in an abandoned basket at the circus.
Although that would be one heck of an episode.
It would also explain my affinity for peanuts.
It doesn’t matter what kind of secret it is. . .it’s a secret I don’t want getting out.
I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding it.
I fly under the radar. I blend in by not sticking out. I’m the girl at the party nobody remembers was there.
Who am I kidding? I don’t go to parties. I wish someone would invite me to one so I could politely decline.
I stay home and read. A lot.
Pajamas > Party.
I’ve actually grown quite accustomed to this simple, small-town life. My days are predictable, each one basically the same—I go to work at my bookstore downtown, making lattes and pushing my latest favorite books on just about everyone who walks through my door. I test my baked goods on the regulars, which is how I knew I had too much lemon in my lemon blueberry muffin recipe. And at night, I come home, make myself a simple dinner, and devour whatever latest romance novel has caught my attention.
Except on certain days when I don’t repeat my routine.
Those are the days when I find I can really be myself. Say what I want. How I want. When I want.
I have an alter ego. Like Batman, but not Batman.
Every Thursday, between 7 p.m. and 9 p.m., I enter my secret world. On the days I don’t read, you’ll find me here, in a little makeshift studio in my basement.
It’s not hidden behind a bookcase—I wish! That would be so cool!—but it is hidden nonetheless.
Like the Bat Cave, but not the Bat Cave. I’m basically a superhero.
My superpower?
Romance.
More accurately, romance novels.
I know every trope, every second plot point, and every inciting incident.
I can describe the nuances of Francesca’s passionate affair with a photographer of bridges, I can argue every position of Laurie, Jo, and Amy’s love triangle, and always thought that Noah got the shaft from Allie when he went off to war.
I put the cover of The Notebook in my “People Almost Kissing” category, along with The Last Song and Nights in Rodanthe.
If only my own love life looked like that.
I’d kill to be almost kissed. In the rain. By a guy with a beard.
But it doesn’t happen for me.
No beards. No rain. No kisses.
Which is why my romantic advice podcast is a secret. Who wants to take advice from a nearly thirty-year-old whose relationships last about as long as a phone battery?
