Chapter 1

Camryn

Plot twist: I’m annoyed, a little tipsy, and apparently about to swipe my way into the unknown. It’s a Thursday night—technically Friday morning if you want to be punctual about it. My best friend Tasha has just conned me into downloading a dating app. Again.

I’m perched on my velvet sofa in my Atlanta condo, wearing leopard-print pajamas under a silver satin robe because I believe in feeling fabulous at all times, even if I’m home alone. My living room is my favorite room in the house—soft lamplight, full bookshelf, and more throw pillows than any human truly needs. A half-eaten slice of sweet potato pie (courtesy of Mama J’s pie shop) waits on the coffee table. I’m sipping pink champagne that Tasha insists is necessary for “liquid courage.”

“Camryn, babycakes.” Tasha flips her braids over her shoulder as she leans against my armchair, phone in hand. She’s tall, curvy, and currently wearing a neon-green power suit that looks both corporate and entirely too fierce for my living room. “If you can write the steamiest sex scenes in modern romance, you can handle a tiny little profile on HeartString.”

I roll my eyes and nestle the phone in my lap. “Tasha, sweetie, writing sex and living sex are not the same thing. Also, I already tried a dating app last year, and remember how that ended?”

“You mean the guy who told you that reading romance is ‘trashy’ and then tried to mansplain Twilight to you?” Tasha snorts, crossing her arms. “Look, you’re older, wiser, and a hell of a lot hotter. Trust me, your pickings will be better.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “You might be onto something, but if I see one more profile pic of a dude holding a fish, I’m uninstalling.”

Tasha bursts into laughter so loud my neighbors might start complaining again. “Well, you can’t control the fish dudes of the universe. But you can control your own destiny by filtering them out. Now c’mon, open HeartString.”

I flick open the app with something akin to reluctant determination. “Fine. But if I hate this, I reserve the right to blame you for everything.”

“Blame me away, sugarplum gremlin,” she teases, tossing me a conspiratorial wink.

I adjust my satin robe, feeling my hair brush my cheeks. My coils are dyed a subtle auburn at the tips, giving me a fiery halo effect. The color always reminds me that there’s a spark inside me, even when I’m overwhelmed by impostor syndrome or irritating critics. Leaning back, I swipe through the set-up screens: name, age, location, a short bio.

Username: CamromWrites (Because Tasha insists that “AuthorCam” is too on-the-nose and “CamrynHasEnteredTheChat” is cringe. I grudgingly settle for this new handle that references my job without looking tacky.)

My bio reads something like: Romance author, enthusiast of wine, big earrings, and quick wit. Seeking someone who won’t sneer at a well-written love scene.

Next, I upload a few pictures—one from my last book launch party where I’m wearing a rose-gold bodycon dress, another from a trip to Mexico in a floppy hat, and a final close-up featuring my auburn-tipped curls in all their glory. I ask Tasha for approval; she gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Now,” Tasha says, tugging on my arm until I’m upright. “Start swiping.”

With a huff, I begin. The first few are exactly what I expect: fish dude, fish dude, shirtless mirror selfie, fish dude, some scrawny guy who might be sweet but has a suspicious lack of personal grooming in his photos.

“Ugh. This is not a good sign,” I groan, pressing “next” so many times my finger feels cramped.

Tasha leans over my shoulder, scanning the profiles. “Hang in there, you drama queen. There’s gotta be a gem or two in the rough.”

I’m about to declare the entire male population hopeless, when a new profile slides onto my screen. The photo is… interesting. A slightly rumpled man with wavy dark blond hair, strong cheekbones, and the kind of expression that says I might be bored, or I might be in dire need of coffee. He’s wearing a tweed blazer. Who does that in a dating app pic?—holding what looks like a well-worn classic novel, its spine half hidden in the shot.

I tilt my head. “I can’t tell if he’s hot or if he just reads too much.”

Tasha narrows her eyes. “Honey, that man is definitely hot. Look at that jawline.”

I lean closer to my phone. He’s got these brooding gray-blue eyes that make me think of a storm rolling in on a summer evening. There’s a little note on his profile about being a “comparative literature professor” and a dog owner. No mention of fish pictures, which is a massive plus.

My lips press together, reading more. “He’s 35, his name is Reuben. He likes ‘literary exploration and spirited debate.’”

“Wow, so Mr. Tweed is a big old nerd,” Tasha says, not sounding unimpressed. “Swipe yes, swipe yes!”

I can’t help but laugh. “He probably sneers at romance. You know how these academic types can be—like we’re beneath them.”

“Or he’s super open-minded and just wants someone to show him a different side of the literary world. C’mon, Camryn. Where’s your sense of romance?”

With a dramatic flourish, I swipe right. “Alright. But if he starts quoting Dostoevsky at me, I’m out.”

Tasha cackles. “I’d pay to see that, actually.”

The app whirls, a little circle dancing around. Suddenly, it flashes: It’s a match!

We both squeal—Tasha with genuine glee, me with something more akin to frightened excitement. I half expect him to vanish, but no, the match remains. There’s even a message bubble.

Reuben: Hello, CamromWrites. I’m not sure how this works, but I suppose the polite thing is to say hi.

I raise my eyebrows and show Tasha. “Told you he’s a nerd. ‘I suppose the polite thing is to say hi’? Who messages like that?”

“That’s kind of adorable in a Mr. Darcy way,” Tasha comments, grabbing the phone from me. “Here, let me help.”

I swat her hand back, taking my phone. “Absolutely not. I can handle this.”

Me: Hi, Reuben. So, are you here by choice or did your friends force you too?

I hold my breath and wait. Tasha sips her champagne, eyes sparkling.

Within a minute, the app pings.

Reuben: My colleague dared me, so I’m here under duress. You?

Me: Ditto. My friend Tasha threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t at least try.

The typing icon pops up. I can’t help smiling at how quickly he responds.

Reuben: Good to know I’m not alone in my reluctant plunge into digital romance. By the way, do you also find these bios cloyingly generic, or is that just my inner cynic talking?

A laugh escapes me. “He’s definitely a snob, but it’s kind of charming.”

“See? I can spot potential from a mile away,” Tasha says smugly.

I type back:

Me: Your inner cynic might need a warm hug. But yes, I’ve read ten different men saying they like ‘long walks on the beach’ and I suspect none of them live near a beach.

He replies:

Reuben: They also claim to adore ‘spontaneity’ and ‘the gym at 5 AM,’ which is equally suspicious.

I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. There’s an ease to this conversation that I usually don’t find online. Then again, maybe it’s just the champagne.

Tasha checks the time, stifling a yawn. “I gotta head home, or I won’t survive my eight AM meeting. Keep flirting with Mr. Tweed, and don’t you dare chicken out on him.”

“Fine,” I say, hugging her goodbye. “Text me when you get home. And thanks, I guess, for forcing me into the dating pool.”

She beams. “Anything to see you happy, Cam. Or at least thoroughly entertained.”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me with the luminous city lights shining through my floor-to-ceiling windows. I curl my legs beneath me, phone in hand, feeling a slow burn of anticipation in my chest.

I decide to keep talking.

Me: So, literature professor, huh? Do you have a favorite genre, or do you read everything with equal snobbery?

I might be flirting a bit aggressively, but I need to know if he’s one of those people—someone who tears down romance.

Reuben: Equal snobbery, absolutely. I’m quite ecumenical in my critiques. I read anything that piques my curiosity, though I’m partial to classic novels. You?

I fight a grin. “He’s leaning into the dryness. Cute.”

Me: I’ll read anything, but I particularly enjoy books with strong emotional arcs and satisfying endings. Probably because I’m an incurable optimist.

He doesn’t respond for a few minutes. I sip my champagne in the interim, considering how to sign off. It’s late, I’m borderline tipsy, and I’ve never had so much fun on a dating app.

Finally:

Reuben: Strong emotional arcs and satisfying endings. That’s the best argument I’ve heard in favor of…dare I say…genre fiction?

I bark out a laugh. He’s not mocking me, exactly. More like gently ribbing me.

Me: You should dare. I happen to be an author of said genre fiction, so if you have an objection, you’ll need to submit it in a 500-word essay.

He replies almost instantly:

Reuben: Author? Intriguing. I might need a citation for your claims. Perhaps a sample of your writing?

A little shiver runs through me. Is he flirting with me about my own job? That’s… new. Usually men become either intimidated or weirdly condescending when they learn I write romance. This might be interesting.

Me: I’ll think about it, professor.

He sends a winky face. I can’t believe I’m actually enjoying a winky face from a man wearing tweed in his profile pic. I shake my head, quietly scolding myself.

“Camryn, girl, what are we doing?” The words slip out, barely audible. “Getting sucked in by the first academically inclined hottie who says hi, that’s what.”

I close the app before my curiosity drags me further. I have a big day tomorrow. My editor wants the next draft of my upcoming novel, Love Under Siege, revised by next week. I also have a Zoom call with a potential agent who wants to handle subsidiary rights. Somehow, in the midst of all that, I’m letting Tasha rope me into a dating adventure.

But as I finally drag myself to bed, I realize I’m more excited than I’ve been in months. My personal life’s been on the back burner since my last relationship ended in a blaze of heartbreak and condescension. The heartbreak I could handle. People grow apart, I guess—but the condescension about my career? That stung. I still remember the way he scoffed when I told him I’d sold my millionth copy.

I slip under my satin sheets, checking my phone one more time. There’s another HeartString notification.

Reuben: In the interest of full disclosure, I’m often busy grading papers. But I promise to check HeartString more than I check my voicemail (which I rarely do). Sleep well, Ms. Author.

I grin like an idiot at my screen.

Me: Night, Professor.

I put the phone on my nightstand, ignoring the little swirl of butterflies in my stomach. This is ridiculous. I barely know him—just some random lit professor who might have an overinflated sense of his own intelligence. And yet, there’s something oddly appealing about his dryness.

Sighing, I switch off the light. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and cringe at my own gullibility. Maybe not. For now, I’m content to let the champagne lull me into dreamland, feeling that sweet, heady promise that maybe—just maybe, my romantic life is about to get interesting again.

Morning brings sunlight through my blinds and the familiar buzz of my phone alarm. I stretch my arms overhead, roll my shoulders, and mentally prepare for a day of editing. The memory of last night’s banter with Reuben teases at the edges of my mind, making me half-smile before I remind myself not to get carried away.

I tumble out of bed, slip my feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffle to the kitchen. My condo is open-plan, so from my vantage point by the fridge, I can see the large windows framing the city skyline. Atlanta’s hustle beckons outside, but I’m in no rush to face traffic.

I brew a pot of coffee, relishing the dark, rich aroma. As it gurgles, I check my emails. A note from my editor—lovely. She wants me to “push the emotional stakes higher in the midpoint scene.” Another from a local bookstore inviting me to a panel. Then I see Tasha’s name in my inbox: SUBJECT: You’re welcome.

I chuckle, opening it. She’s forwarded me some digital press mentions about my last book, plus a snarky comment: “Maybe Mr. Tweed would like a free advanced copy? LMAO.”

I roll my eyes fondly. Tasha thrives on my love life (or lack thereof) like it’s a personal Netflix subscription.

I pour coffee into my favorite mug—a bright pink one that says Romance Writers Do It With Feeling and sip carefully. My reflection in the microwave door reveals my morning self: deep espresso skin with a faint glow, a slight crease on my cheek from the pillow, and hair that needs a little love from my curling cream.

“Girl, we are not camera-ready,” I murmur. But no cameras around, so we’re safe.

I sink onto a barstool, phone in hand, and hesitantly open HeartString. New message from Reuben:

Reuben: Good morning. I hope your day is less tedious than mine; I’m already drowning in half-baked student papers on Shakespeare.

I snort into my coffee. Despite myself, I type back:

Me: Morning, professor. If you need a break from the Bard, might I suggest reading something… spicier?

My finger hovers over the send button. Is that too suggestive? Eh, who cares? It’s not like I haven’t written steamier lines in my novels. I hit send.

His reply comes surprisingly fast.

Reuben: You have no idea how appealing that sounds. Although the students might riot if I’m too distracted to grade them fairly.

Me: I’ll keep that in mind. Enjoy your lecture halls—try not to correct your students’ grammar too harshly.

Reuben: I make no promises.

I grin. My coffee tastes better with a side of flirtation, it turns out.

But I can’t linger on the app all morning. I’ve got deadlines. Specifically, rewriting the third-act conflict in Love Under Siege, a comedic historical romance set in 19th-century England. My editor wants more emotional resonance when the heroine confronts her father about refusing to let her marry for love.

I settle at my writing desk, a sleek white number with gold accents, trying to focus. Usually, I can sink into my fictional worlds without a problem. But my brain keeps drifting, imagining Reuben’s stern face and that teasing dryness in his texts.

“Get it together, Camryn,” I mutter, employing a scolding tone. “We do not have time for daydreaming about random men.”

Easier said than done.

After an hour of forcing paragraphs onto the screen, I give in and stand to stretch, wandering to the window. The traffic below is a faint hum, and the sun is fully up now, making the city shimmer. I let out a breath, thinking about the dualities in my life: successful romance author, single as a lone sock in the dryer. Fiercely proud of my writing, yet constantly bracing for the next wave of snarky comments from people who think romance is lesser.

My mind automatically travels to that one scathing reviewer. Someone I occasionally call “Professor Evil” in my head. R.H. Ellis. I remember the words vividly: “A cotton candy fever dream of bad metaphors and worse orgasms.” Yikes. The memory churns my stomach, but I try to shrug it off. Not today. I refuse to let some random academic overshadow my mood.

By lunchtime, I’ve reworked a decent chunk of my manuscript. My phone lights up again with a new notification. Tasha, this time:

Tasha: Lunch at Bistro Leon? My treat, come share your progress.

I text back a quick yes. My brain needs real fuel.

I slip into a fitted black dress—something comfortable but with enough flair to make me feel unstoppable. I accessorize with chunky gold earrings, each shaped like a tiny book, because branding is everything. Then I step into my beloved 4-inch heels. At 5’7”, I’m already not short, but I enjoy towering a bit.

Outside, the summer warmth envelopes me as I head for my car, a sleek black SUV with tinted windows. The drive is short, and soon I’m at Bistro Leon, a cozy café known for croissants, beignets, and the best coffee outside my own kitchen.

Tasha’s already there, perched at a table in the corner. She’s ditched the neon suit for a more casual jumpsuit in bright orange. Still the most glamorous woman in the room.

“Hey, superstar.” She waves me over, a grin splitting her glossed lips. “You look stunning. That dress is practically singing.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly pleased by her compliment. “I try.”

We order salads and pastries. Because balance is a myth, but we can at least pretend and Tasha rests her chin on her hand. “So, how’d your morning go?”

“Surprisingly good,” I admit. “Got some writing done, bantered with a certain professor on HeartString…”

Tasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re still talking to Tweed Boy?”

“Yep. We’ve exchanged enough messages that my thumbs are starting to cramp.”

She fans herself dramatically. “I love it. Give me details: Did he reveal any big secrets? Professors sometimes have the wildest after-hours hobbies.”

“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll find out. He’s mostly complaining about grading papers, which is weirdly cute.”

She smirks. “Babycakes, you’re blushing.”

I clutch my chest in mock horror. “Am not.”

Her laughter rings out. “Okay, so maybe not ‘blushing’ but you’ve got that starry-eyed look. Don’t get your hopes up too high. You know how men can be. Just enjoy the ride, see if he can keep up.”

I nod, acknowledging the caution. “Agreed. I’m not booking the wedding venue or anything. But I won’t say I’m not intrigued.”

We dig into our food. Bistro Leon’s spinach salad is a revelation of goat cheese and caramelized pecans, and the beignets are drenched in powdered sugar heaven. Tasha catches me side-eying the dessert display. She raises an eyebrow. “Should we get the chocolate mousse to go?”

“You read my mind,” I say, flagging down a waiter.

While we wait, Tasha scrolls on her phone. “Oh hey, did you see the new romance panel being announced next month? The Southeastern Romance ReaderCon? They’re inviting established authors to do a Q&A.”

I perk up. “Seriously? I’d love to. Sign me up.”

She nods, tapping notes in her phone. “Done. That’d be a great chance to boost your upcoming release.”

Warm satisfaction hums in my chest. I love events like that—getting face-to-face with readers who actually adore romance. It’s a balm against the cynics.

Once we finish eating, Tasha has to head back to her office, and I decide to stroll around for a bit, letting my mind percolate ideas for my story. As I walk through the bustling sidewalks, a sense of positivity settles over me. There’s something in the air—maybe a new start or just the rush of doing something outside my usual routine.

I glance at my phone. Another message from Reuben. My heart does a weird flutter.

Reuben: This might be forward, but would you like to grab a coffee sometime? Apparently, I need a break from student essays, and it’d be nice to meet the person behind the witty texts.

My lips part in a slow grin. Maybe Tasha’s meddling wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Me: Forward? I’m an author, I thrive on forward. Sure, I’m free tomorrow evening if you can do coffee or maybe dinner.

His response comes after a minute:

Reuben: Dinner sounds fantastic. I’m game if you are. Shall we say 7 pm at Bellini’s? It’s near campus, and I’ve heard rave reviews.

Bellini’s is a classy little Italian spot known for fresh pasta and decadent tiramisu. My stomach does a happy flip just thinking about it.

Me: Bellini’s at 7 works for me. Text me if your grading crisis intensifies and you need more time.

Reuben: Not even a horde of ungraded papers could make me miss out. I’ll see you then, Ms. Author.

I exhale, feeling a rush of excitement that starts in my chest and trickles down to my toes. A real-life date with a man who might be as snarky as I am. He might also be a condescending academic jerk, but so far, he’s come across as exactly the kind of intriguing puzzle I’d like to solve.

I tuck my phone away, letting the bright sunshine and swirl of pedestrians carry me along. Tomorrow evening. Bellini’s. A chance to step away from my laptop and meet someone who might appreciate what I do. Or at least be entertainingly exasperated by it.

I can’t resist murmuring to myself, “Plot twist: I might actually want to see this one through.”

For the first time in a long while, I feel a little jolt of hope at the idea of letting someone new into my life. Maybe it’ll end in heartbreak or comedic disaster. But as a romance writer, I can’t help believing that every new beginning could be the start of something extraordinary.