Either way, I round on him and his blasé expression, annoyed as hell, wondering how much of an ass I’ll look like when I accuse him and he says he didn’t.

“You left it open,” he says, answering my question for him, but I don’t know if I believe him.

“That wasn’t an invitation for you to help yourself to its content.”

He twists his lips and continues to stare at me with those inquisitive eyes. “Why are you embarrassed about what you write?”

“I’m not.”

“Hostility. It’s always welcome from a gorgeous woman.” He winks, and I hate that I want to smile at his ridiculous statement.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Do you always make it a habit to apologize to men you’ve just met?”

“No. I don’t.”

You just fluster me when I’m not a woman who gets flustered easily, so I don’t know how to handle it.

“So why are you embarrassed that you write romance?” he asks again and earns a snort from me.

“I told you I’m not.”

It’s his turn to chuckle. “I hear what your lips are saying, Harley, but everything else about you—the way you look around every time I say the word ‘romance’ as if you don’t want anyone to hear me. The way you keep glancing at your computer. How you keep chewing the inside of your cheek. I mean, I’ve gotta admit, those things tell me the exact opposite.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Romance is that genre so many people read but most deny reading. It’s the taboo one that’s labeled as smut or mindless reading and often looked down upon by people in publishing as well as readers in general,” I explain and expect him to nod in agreement.

“And?”

“And?” I repeat.

“Yeah, and? From the looks of your bio, you’re wildly successful. That means you have a following of people—probably the majority of them women. They use your books to escape the daily grind—kids, work, husbands who take them for granted. Who cares what the non-romance readers think? Who cares about the naysayers who think what you write is smut? In the end, aren’t you the one getting the last laugh?”

I stare at Saint, blinking my eyes as if I’m trying to make sure he’s really real and he actually just said that. Things only other romance authors say and not something the public openly admits.

“Wow.” I open my mouth, then close it, uncertain how to respond, and then open it again because he deserves something for putting into words how I feel. “I’m not even sure what to say.”

“Say, ‘You’re right, Saint.’” His grin is more a cocky smirk than a smile. “I never get tired of hearing that.”