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The cover is humiliating. I don’t know who made the executive decision to put naked male torsos on romance novels, but I have a sneaking suspicion that some big-shot marketing executive wanted to shame me into buying an e-reader so I wouldn’t have to be seen holding this in public.
My roommates call me a hopeless romantic. I let them. It’s nicer than being called a lonely hermit.
“Unfortunately, leaving this desk to help cranky kids with their homework isn’t in my job description.”
“So,” he says, “Thursdays and Sundays, you party.” “Yep.” “And on Fridays, you sit behind that front desk reading porn.”
“I’ve never kissed anyone sober,” I admit, my entire face flushing with heat. Vincent’s face softens. “Then practice on me,” he offers. “I’m here. I’m all yours.”
Life is far too short to let my shot at feeling like I’m in a romance novel pass me by.
I let my eyelids flutter closed, embracing my newest kink: being read to.
“Courted? I’m sorry, is this Victorian England?” “No, this is Starbucks.”
Reading is so much fun, but I’m tired of feeling like all the best parts of my life have been lived inside my own head.
“She wants to be told she’s loved, but it has to be true. He has to mean it. It has to be more than just empty words.”
“Actions speak louder than words,” Vincent murmurs, more to himself than to me.
“Then for the sake of being direct,” he says, “I can’t stop thinking about you, Kendall. And I’ve read every goddamned poem Elizabeth Barrett Browning ever wrote. In three weeks. For fun.”
Communication is brutal, and maybe I’m worse at it than I thought I was, but God, it’s worth it.
Because if Vincent is for real, then he’s . . . he’s everything.
“I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I memorized poems for you because I wanted to be able to talk to you about the shit you like.” He lowers his voice. “And I ate you out because it was my birthday, and all I wanted was to make you come. That was for me, Kendall. All of that was for me. I didn’t do it just to be nice. I did it because I. Like. You.”
and there—in the eaves of my favorite bookstore, with Vincent Knight’s dick in my hand—I have a major life revelation. I’m done being afraid of asking dumb questions or making a fool of myself. I refuse to let my fear of embarrassment cause me to miss out on something I really want to do, like getting white girl wasted with Nina and Harper, or writing my own romance novel, or giving the boy I’m completely obsessed with a blow job. This is me letting go of my nerves. This is me learning to put my pride aside, for both our sakes, and reminding myself that this is Vincent. He’s frustratingly good
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“In public. Like, I’m sorry, what? Who am I?” Vincent shrugs on his jacket. “My girl.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like there’s no other acceptable answer.
It won’t always be big moments between us. It’ll be little ones, like this—the two of us in his car, passionately debating which route will get us to my apartment the quickest while Jabari’s joke of a playlist loops in the background. And I want them. All the little moments. All the unimportant stuff suddenly feels so important.
“Be a good girl for me, Kendall,” he says without a drop of humor, “and take it.”
We don’t have to choose right now. We get more than a few hundred pages of hand-selected moments together. There’s no rush. No last page to turn to. We have time. All the time in the world.
The thing is, I don’t read romance novels for the realism. I read them because they make me feel seen and heard as a woman. They let me explore my desires—both the ones I’m proud of and the ones I clear from my search history—and they’ve taught me who I am and what I want.
I’m always going to be a reader. And I’m always going to be a romantic.
