I accidentally read a romance novel. I don’t know how it happened. I thought it was about a little girl that lost her mother and found her voice and her joy again at Christmas. It was really about an uncle/guardian and the new lady in town who happens to be a young widow that has opened a new toy shop on one of those islands off the coast of Seattle. Next time, I must really read more than two lines of the jacket summary.
It wasn’t a bodice ripper by any stretch, and for most of the novel it was pristine near to Jane Austen. And then it wasn’t. And I found myself thinking, “Really? You knew that dude was a player and didn’t even consider the birth control?”
It has been a really long time since I read a romance novel.
All of the characters were perfectly pleasant – even the girlfriend that was ditched. There wasn’t very much conflict, which was fine, too. The “Christmas” connection was pretty weak, but that was ok. But I think I gotta go back to the Christmas murder mysteries now.