In the span of ten minutes, I’ve learned all there is to know about Nate. He’s twenty-five (five years my junior, but I’m willing to embrace the Cougar Life), works at an investment firm, owns his very own condo, would choose mustard over ketchup if stranded on a remote island, and is secure enough in his manhood to admit his fondness for Taylor Swift’s latest album. Creatures like him are a romance reader’s wet dream.
