"You should read this," my husband said as he dropped a slightly used-looking paperback book on my desk. "It's a romance novel."
I snickered. "How would you know?"
Friends, my hunk o' burnin' love doesn't do romance novels. Not even mine.
Oh, he's wildly supportive of my writing. A couple of years ago, he took over the grocery shopping and food preparation for our family so I could have more time to write (and I appreciate that far more than I desire his feedback on my writing). He also promotes my work to an embarrassing degree, pressing my business cards and books on business associates and even people he barely knows. Once when I picked him up at the airport, a perfect stranger waved at me.
"Who's that?" I asked my husband.
"Oh, just some guy I sat next to on the plane. I told him about your book and gave him one of your cards."
Now in addition to being a tireless promoter of my work, my husband is actually bringing me romance novels to read. I don't know where he got this book, but since he'd never read a romance novel on purpose, I'm now wondering at what point in the story it occurred to him that he was actually reading a romance.
I've heard of Zane Gray, naturally, but I've never been a fan of westerns, and I've always assumed there wasn't more than a touch of romance in his books. But isn't that Joan Wilder and her man Jack on the cover?
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