I have a confession to make… I love romance novels. Okay, that’s not a confession. They’re the top selling genre in fiction so lots of people love romance. My confession is: I believe romance only lives within the pages of those books.
This is a point of contention between me and my fellow romance readers. I’m used to arguing with my book-club besties. I’m not used to ridiculously hot, shirtless millionaires making it their goal in life to prove me wrong about romance. But that’s exactly what Beckett Vinroot does.
We don’t make sense together. He’s a buttoned-up business man, impeccably dressed with glasses that cost more than my car. Meanwhile I can’t tame my crazy blonde curls into a messy bun and my nose ring and full tatted arm sleeve don’t match his limousine style. But I don’t think of any of our differences when he kisses me.
When I’m in Beckett’s arms I want desperately to believe that love is real and that it’s finally found me.
