“How’s the writing going these days?” he asks. “You working on your next masterpiece?”

“My next masterpiece,” I repeat, knowing I’ve only written one workable chapter in an entire year—and also knowing that I only wrote that one chapter because of him. “The novel I’m focusing on now is still in development.”

“Exactly how many books have you written?”

“Seven in the past five years.”

“A classic underachiever.”

“Writing dominated my life for a long time,” I say. “My first five novels were a historical romance series and my last two were contemporaries. The contemporaries didn’t go over well.”

“Why do you think that is? Did you not like writing them?”

“No, I did. It felt refreshing to try something new but I guess my readers weren’t into it. It seems I’m better off in the past—in 19th-century England, to be specific.”

“You always were an old soul.” Ryan pauses before speaking again, a boyish grin appearing on his face. “What’s it like when you write the dirty parts?”

“Really?” I ask. “How old are you?”

“I’m just curious about your creative process.”

We move a little closer together as the sidewalk grows more crowded. Portable tables with vendors selling knockoff bags and NYC souvenirs line the pavement. “You can be honest,” he goes on. “Do you laugh or do you get all serious? Do you dim the lights? Get a few candles going?”

“Don’t belittle romance novels, okay? Romance is arguably the most popular and profitable genre of fiction in America. Everyone loves a love story.”

“Love stories?” Ryan asks incredulously. “No offense, Sullivan, but I’ve read your books and love is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of the most memorable excerpts. If I had a dollar for every time you used the words tender bud to describe a freshly exposed nipple, I’d be a rich man.”

“Oh, please. You’re focusing on one aspect. And big deal, romance novels get racy at points. So what? Men used to have dirty magazines stashed away for years and the sky’s the limit on what kind of circus-level porn people can watch on the internet now. That’s exponentially worse than reading beautiful romantic stories about true love.”

“Granted, and maybe romance novels wouldn’t be so bad if everyone knew what was really going on in them. At least it’s common knowledge that guys indulge in erotic—” he searches for the right word “—collections.”

“Ha,” I say.

“But you act so innocent reading those books. People would be stunned if they knew the truth. When I stole your book in college, I was scandalized.”

“Were you? Were you scandalized, Ryan?”

“Yes, I was.”

I give him a disapproving grin and turn to look forward. “How’s your family?”