“Are you…living one of my romance novels vicariously through me?” he asks, playfully, but I sense it’s a veil for more of his doubts. “Maybe that’s what you’re doing to me,” I tease in return. “No, Riley,” he whispers. “Nobody could write you.” I may have lost the dog lottery, but I think that comment means I just won the man lottery. I’ll take it and count my blessings. Patting his hip, it’s hard to hold back my proud grin.
