I admit it. I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic. I used to devour one or two romance novels a week – give me all the burly mountain men, clever professors with kinky proclivities, spoiled billionaires, wild motorcycle gangs, or sexy vampires, as long as the hero is broody, grumpy, and possessive with a schlong that has to be checked as oversized baggage on aeroplanes, I’m in.
