Too Good to Be Real began with the kernel of an idea that appeared out of nowhere—one of those rare and wondrous thunderclaps of inspiration—an unexpected gift like a precious gem revealed beneath dusty old rocks. I should have known that anything that started so effortlessly would eventually claim its due. By the time I reached “the end” of this story, I had begun to refer to it as The Murder Book. Yes, because I believed it was trying to kill me. Rest assured, I survived. But only with the help of coffee, wine, and the following people.

My amazing, patient, understanding editor, Jennie Conway. Thanks for merrily coming along for the ride when I called you out of the blue and suggested we drop everything we’d been working on to chase this wild idea instead. You are a consummate professional who navigates the process of taking a book from concept to product with ease and empathy, and I am so lucky to have you in my corner.

Shout-out to the team at St. Martin’s Press, especially Marissa, Naureen, and Kelly. Thanks for being my book cheerleaders!

Much appreciation for my agent, Pamela Harty, for always being just a phone call away. Your experience and wisdom helps me keep my mind on the big picture and my eye on what’s in front of me.

To my fantastic plotting retreat buddies: Sonali Dev, Lynne Hartzer, Clara Kensie, Heather Marshall, and CJ Warrant for their help brainstorming romantic comedies. Heather, your reminder of “Whoops-a-daisies” was epic. I am in your debt.

Many thanks to my beta readers Erica O’Rourke and Lynne Hartzer for giving up their valuable time to provide insightful critiques.

Heaps of gratitude to Christine Palmer, for surprising me with a lovely survival basket of wine and treats to sustain me during my week of living as a hermit in a cottage on the lake.

Hugs to my Golden Heart sisters, always a source of great comfort, more so than ever during these trying times. Rebelle island is my safe harbor, an island of calm in a sea of uncertainty.

Much love to my family, including my mom, Linda (I promise, the next book will be dedicated to you!), my brave and beautiful daughters Aishtyn and Gwyn (thanks for putting up with cranky deadline mom who for weeks on end you only knew as that bedraggled lump on the couch), and my husband, Hugues, a six-foot-four-inch, video game–playing, Pac-Man T-shirt-wearing, Zelda-obsessed computer guy who, due to quarantine and being around each other 24/7, may have shown up in my hero more than I planned. Thanks for providing such great source material.