“Oh, please. The PhD for a worthy cause? The muscles for days? The genetically inherited carpentry skills? The rolled shirtsleeves?” She points her wineglass toward my bare forearms as if they, above all else, prove her point. “Everything about… this,” she says, waving her hands and wineglass up and down to indicate my entire being, “is straight out of an overserved romance novel. And I would know!” she cries. “I write them!”
