I don’t believe in fated mates. I’m not even sure I believe in love.
Which is too bad, since I write romance novels.
It doesn’t really matter, because a relationship is the last thing on my mind. I’m worried about my sick neighbor, and I need to focus on my book deadline.
But there’s something strange about the handsome doctor I met at a bar. I feel things for him I’ve never felt for anyone.
Why do I keep writing about tentacles?
