To begin, I heart romance novels.
Ever since I was 12, I’ve been sneaking Harlequins from the library. I devoured the passionate affairs of young English misses, stubborn Scottish wenches, dashing pirates, and handsome — but terribly tortured — Civil War soldiers. I swooned when they kissed. I sighed when they did the dirty. And I too wanted an epic romance of my own. Preferably with someone who looked like Fabio and wore a ruffled shirt buttoned down to there.
So I’ve decided to openly confess my adoration and devote time to the topic. I’ll be reviewing every awful romance novel I can get my hands on.
So stick around and read on for heaving bosoms, plot holes, and my intense love of male jawlines. I’m not kidding.