Any Trope but You

by Victoria Lavine

I learned the hard way that in this bleak swipe-left world, romance novels give hope to the hopeless. They make you believe that a sensitive, multilingual, insanely jacked doctor named Hunter is just waiting in the wings of your life, ready to laugh with you about all the toads you dated while cuddling after your nightly synchronized orgasms.

“Then you must be Margot Bradley from L.A.” “And you must be Trapper from… the forest?”

“Better to fall on your ass climbing a mountain than to never climb it at all,”

Stern is his baseline. He probably gave a stern look to the obstetrician who delivered him into the world.

For the first time in a very long time, I remember why I became a romance writer in the first place. It’s not about my beliefs on love. It’s about giving people hope when they need it most.

Despite all logic, I look at her and feel the shape of my future, the same way I know the warm taste of her skin without touching her.

I think he sees every hidden part of me, and for the first time ever, being known doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like coming home.